


Sulfuric Sugar

by TheOnlyHuman



Series: Dark Claws: What-ifs [3]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Batfamily, Bisexual Female Character, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, F/F, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fem-Dick is called Rachel, Female Dick Grayson, He's really cool, High School, Hispanic Jason Todd, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Jason Todd is Robin, Original Russian Character, PTSD, Rachel might join them, Romani Dick Grayson, Russian character, Secret Identity, Secrets, Slow Burn, Tim likes fem!Dick, What is Dead May Never Die, a bit mobsterish, age reversal fic, and she doesnt know what shes feeling, and she's bi and confused, because you know, child neglect is abuse, eventual female x female, fem!Dick is emotionally awkward, friendship is stronger than love, idk - Freeform, if its four am is it tomorrow or last night or this morning or what, if only rachel knew what love was, in that Batgirl has territory and is hella protective, its too early/too late, liked that tag, romanian dick grayson, she's Batgirl, steph and cass are the girl gang, the Croydons are cruel, vigilantes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2019-11-04 15:46:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 62,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17900945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheOnlyHuman/pseuds/TheOnlyHuman
Summary: ((Set in 2019 onwards))Rachel's Batgirl, Tim's Red Robin, the Wayne's are the Bat Clan. These are facts. (And who cares if one person only knows all of these? Heh, you're asking the wrong girl.)Bruce Wayne is a compulsive child hoarder... that one's yet to be confirmed. (It's probably true anyway.)That fic that has reversed ages, has the entire batfam and oh- yeah-- Rachel is our female Dick Grayson.She's called Rachel Croydon. (Damn those Croydons.)Rachel Croydon is Batgirl."No way."She laughed, "Yes way. It's so yes way, it's shway.""God help us."





	1. Of What Was Once Grayson

**Author's Note:**

> The Bat Family refer to themselves as the Bat Clan as they deem themselves to each be capable warriors of both Bat and Bird. Just… they don't like being called the Bat Fam. That's their reasoning not mine.
> 
> Ages are as below;
> 
> Alfred - 62 - Agent A *when on comms* also called Agent Penny
> 
> Bruce - 41 - Batman
> 
> Terry - 21 - Nightwing
> 
> Duke - 20 - Sketcher (Comm. Informant. Helps with Oracle in Bat Cave.)
> 
> Barbara - 20 - Oracle (Comm. Informant. Duke helps her, hacking cameras and aiding field bois. (she's not one of B's kids, nor is Duke))
> 
> Damian - 19 - Night's Cardinal (admant that his name is not weird, tho tends to go by Cardinal.) Siblings jokingly call him Dark Cardinal.
> 
> Cassandra - 18 - Black Bat
> 
> Stephanie - 18 - Spoiler
> 
> Tim - 16 - Red Robin
> 
> Rachel (Dick) - 16 - Batgirl (her costume looks like Kane’s Batwoman from the Animated Batman movies)
> 
> Jason - 15 - Robin
> 
> All of the Bat Clan are adopted except for Damian and Terry ‘cuz they're both his kids by blood.
> 
> Oh, 
> 
> Kate Kane - 36 - Huntress (mainly operates in Cormorant with Birds of Prey as their leader.)

 

Bruce frowned at the TV showing a black and red costumed Batgirl swinging from rooftop to rooftop with tech and gear that definitely wasn't of the Clan. Terry and Stephanie sat frozen beside him while Damian stood behind where Bruce sat, holding Jason and Cassandra back from smashing the TV to bits.

The Batgirl swinging higher than Bruce would've ever let his children fly, grinning with feral glee, wasn't one of theirs.

Tim, who had been sitting beside Stephanie examining the new Batgirl with a critical eye, spoke up first. “Whoever she is she's good but, uh - we _do_ know who she is, right?”

The frown felt like it was cutting into his cheeks as he stood, grabbing his briefcase from the coffee table as he went. He was late for that meeting with Mrs. Higgarty, she'd have his head unless he showed up with an apology cake and a good excuse.

“No, we don't." He grunted, "But we'll find out. Keep an eye out for her, make sure she doesn't get herself killed. Get us answers.”

 

  

**Five Years Later**

 

Her alarm clock blared in her ears and only after the third ring did Rachel realise it was _7:55_ and that she was going to be very, _very_ late for school.

Not that she cared but, y'know, adult pressure.

Shooting up from under her white covers took a sort of finesse that she struggled to find in the mornings. Somehow she dug herself out from the mountain of blankets and found herself standing in front of the bathroom mirror with a toothbrush shoved in her mouth, half in a daze. Turns out half an hour of sleep, coupled with Batgirl’s _ambitious_ patrol route and insomnia didn't go well together.

“You'll be late if you take any longer, Thomas!” That was Miranda, her adoptive mother, shouting the wake up call for her adoptive brother, Thomas, because she drove the lucky bastard to school. It was also her warning of _‘get out of the bathroom before that boy gets there and tries to kill you’_ as Thomas wasn't overly fond of her. Nor was his mother or his father and that all combined just made Rachel wonder why they'd even bothered to adopt her at all.

She hadn't even been allowed to keep her true surname; _Grayson_.

She took a few more seconds to pop in the translucent contact lenses that she'd toiled over for far too long. A few weeks ago she'd hooked them up to the famous Batcomputer, which Batgirl had hacked a week before courtesy of finding and planting a self made bug onto the Batmobile. ((It gave her unlimited access to everything, even going as far to give identification for everyone she seen that was on the computer (which was no doubt _everyone_ in Gotham)).

Idly slipping out from the bathroom after flushing the toilet and checking her Gotham Academy uniform, Rachel quietly hopped down the creaky wooden stairs and walked into the kitchen.

No one looked up at her when she entered and she liked it that way, as it made it easier to hide her limp. Not that they'd care anyway. The only things they cared about was her going to school and having half decent grades so Child Services couldn't have an excuse to come knocking. Thus, she was able to slither over to the fridge unhindered and pull out an apple pack (which was basically a little sealed plastic bag that had apple slices in it) and on her way to the front door, grab her light blue backpack before she was gone.

She walked out the door and entered one of the nicer parts of Gotham. Let her rephrase that; the place was not so nice that she didn't _not_ have to patrol there. Instead it was nicer in the way you only got the casual mugging and almost none of the darker things, which was _quite_ good for Gotham. It was in the southern parts, closer to the bridges before Gotham's countryside, and it was further away from the main centre of the City.

Gotham Academy was five blocks away and jogging was probably the only way she'd get there on time but last night her right kneecap had been kicked and shot. Rachel had been beyond lucky to find clean bandages, a needle, string and disinfectant at all in the Croydon family's shitstorm of a bathroom. One would think a family that had a son that played football would have a Medkit on hand but nope. Not her shitty adoptive one. (Which reminded her she had to try and find a decent Medkit down at the corner shop after school. _Damn._ )

In the agonising end she'd had to pull the damn bullet out with her fingers, biting down on an old shirt as to not bite her tongue off. Cleaning the wound and stitching it up had been such a nightmare that Rachel didn't even want to think about it.

Ergo, she was left limping. It was ever so slight but still noticeable if someone stared at her for more than two seconds.

Basically, she was screwed.

She'd get caught at the Academy and someone would ask her what had happened and the worst would be assumed. CS would be called,  Miranda would get angry, Jonathan (Mr. Croydon) would frown and she'd be put in the closet again—

( _It closed in, in, in. The darkness swallowed her up and spat her back out in a repeating cycle of nightmares and pain and tears that would not form. The walls wavered, the lock squeaked, the hooks for the coats looked ever so appealing. The door opened, Miranda sneered down at her._

_"I'm sorry," she gasped, not even remembering what she was apologising for. "I won't do it ever again."_ )

Amazingly, she made it to the school gates only five minutes late. Probably a brand new record for her as even without Batgirl she'd had a history of being terribly late.

And she only got a break time detention.

_Score_.

 

  

She made it until second period before something happened with the resident bully (Greggory Alóver) that made everyone crowd the hallways. Rachel was just thankful she wasn't on Alóver's pick list, she didn't think she could handle it if was her on a daily basis. She felt sorry for those who were.

Today, it was a boy: Timothy ‘Tim’ Drake-Wayne, 16 (same age as her), 5th year, all AP classes and one of Wayne's kids who was actually allowed to keep their surname. Rachel pushed down the pang of jealousy that rose in her chest as her mind skimmed that piece of information from the eye contact. Her heart froze as she read the last line that was on the contact.

_Identity: Red Robin._

_Oh shit._

Alóver sneered down at the black haired boy as Timothy was shoved to the ground by two of Alóver's friends. “That's all you got, Charity Case?”

_What the hell is that guy's problem?_ Most students stared dumbly at the group and Rachel found rage that she expelled as Batgirl welling up in her, screaming for a fight. It screamed to be let out. Debating the pros (satisfaction) and cons (a possible detention and call home), Rachel surveyed the fight. It was majorly one-sided, with Alóver's friends beating down on Timothy.

What the hell, she had nothing better to do.

Brushing through and out of the crowd she frowned at Alóver’s back who stood a good few inches above her at 6’1” (like Jesus, he was 16 too, _unfair_ much?) and kicked his back with such brutal force that it sent him tumbling face first into a locker.

“What _the—_?”

Rachel balanced down on her good leg as she cursed her decision making of kicking with her bad leg and hoped that the bloody bandages wouldn't bleed through her tights. Covering her pain with haste, she put her hands on her hips and frowned at Alóver, who was on the ground clutching his broken nose that had blood gushing out it a mile a minute. His friends shuffled around nervously, looking ready to sprint. “Pick on someone your own size, why don't you?”

Ignoring the furious whispers of the surrounding students as Alóver got up and stormed off, pulling his possé along behind him, she turned to Timothy. Rachel smiled down at him and offered her hand, which he took with a shy smile, his silky black locks shadowing his cobalt blue eyes.

“Timothy, right?” She asked, hoisting him up. She noticed how he pulled himself up more with his leg muscles than she did with her arm’s. “We're in the same forum. I'm Rachel.”

The warning bell rung, sending a deafening squeal through the hallway. Timothy stood a few inches taller than her, lanky frame seeming shy despite his apparent brains. The continuous A* student brushed himself off and picked up his discarded bag, while smiling at her. “Nice to meet you, Rachel. We're at AP Calculus next, I think.”

“God, I hate Mr Swornr.” She started, and that was how they ended up walking together to the next class.

 

 

 

“Seen you valk in vith Drake,” Aleksandr Artem grinned at her when she sat down in front of him in Calculus. The boy was probably the closest thing she had to a friend, if he _was_ a nosy one at that.

“Helped him out in the hallway,” she said as if it were superficial and in need of being skimmed over. “Walked him here.”

The Russian boy laughed like he knew her secrets and god knew he wished he did. “Да,” he laughed. “Ever the modest one, Rachel.”

“Modesty is good for the soul,” she said pretentiously.

Aleksandr chuckled, his green eyes glimmering in the afternoon sun that streamed in through the windows. This was the last subject until lunch and god Rachel couldn't wait to fucking take a nap. “Are you sure? I thought that vas yoga?”

Rachel turned away.

Aleksandr laughed until Mr Swornr shot him a glare and threatened him with an after school detention. Even then he didn't stop.

 

 

 

“Vhy didn't you tell me I vas going to get a detention, friend?” Aleksandr moaned, cuddling his plastic container like it was a bear. The fucking idiot had just gotten his first after school and he wasn't wasting time to _not_ mope.

They were in the Canteen now, it officially having struck 12:55 pm which was the beginning of lunch. That depressed asshole, Mr Swornr, had kept the class back though and now it was something like 1:04pm.

Which meant the Canteen was filled with the hubbub and chatter of the day, also meaning that Rachel would not be embarrassed by Aleksandr’s very loud whining.

Rachel laughed loudly, the sound dulled and lost to other peope's voices bubbling in the huge hall. “I did, you were laughing too loudly, you dickhead. Now shut up and eat your shitty Borscht.”

Aleksandr gaped comically, “Нет! Borscht iz not shitty, it iz deliciouz and a thing of the godz!”

Rachel fake gagged, casually dropping her chin to rest on her folded arms on the table. “Only Russian's say that, Artem. Why don't you bring some of those nice dumplings anymore?”

_"Peljmeni?"_ Aleksandr asked. Rachel shrugged, not really caring. “Ah. Мама zaid they take too long to make nov, zhe von't make me them. They _vere_ nice too.”

Rachel raised an eyebrow. “Why don't you just make your own food?”

“Ah,” Aleksandr scowled, “It take too long. Vhat about you; vhere is your food?”

Half heartedly, Rachel shrugged, fully resting her head in her arms. “Ain't got no money to buy the school's shit.”

“Ha!” Aleksandr boasted, slurping at his soup. “And you nag me for not making my ovn food, peasant.”

“Asshole,” she traded back.

“Pilgrim."

“I ain't holy,” she laughed, closing her eyes. God she just wanted to sleep.

“You do not need to be holy to be a pilgrim,” Aleksandr hummed, slurping quietly now. “A pilgrim, simplified, is someone vho has… vent on a journey.”

“Oh?” Rachel asked. “When did you get so knowledgeable?”

“Hey, ‘scuse me?” A girl's voice called, cutting off Aleksandr’s reply. “Rachel?”

Rachel pulled her head out of her arms and opened her eyes. There was an athletically fit blonde staring expectantly at her.

_Stephanie Brown-Wayne,_ the contact filled in for her, the words appearing like black magic on a holy relic.

_18\. Attends Gotham Academy._

_Identity: Spoiler._

The Bat Family really had to stop stating who they were on their Computer. It was a miracle everyone in Gotham didn't know who they were already.

_Not everyone hacks the Bat Computer,_ her subconscious nagged.

_True that._

“Yeah?” Rachel asked, raising a hand to rake it through her hair. God, she hadn't brushed it this morning. Although it probably didn't look that bad or Aleksandr would've mentioned it.

“I'm Steph,” Stephanie smiled, her eyes glimmering a pink against her oddly blonde hair. She could have albinism. Possibly. Rachel didn't really care either way. “Tim told us how you helped him out earlier-”

Steph jerked her thumb over to a table where a couple more tags (namely Jason Todd-Wayne, _Robin_ and Cassandra Cain-Wayne, _Black Bat_ ) popped up. Tim was there too, seemingly embarrassed even as she blinked at him.

“-and we wanted to thank you by inviting you over to our place after school today.”

Rachel's heart jumped into her throat. It didn't take a detective to realise that if a man’s kids were vigilantes who ran under a similar vigilante boss, that man was probably that boss.

Aka, Bruce Wayne was probably, if not definitely, Batman.

_Sweet fucking Jesus, kill me now._

“Uh-” Aleksandr raised his eyebrows, as if telling her to take this opportunity. It seemed great on the outside, really; go and meet a Billionaire and his family but the inside bit? The bit that said the entire family were probably the Bat Clan, and could kill her with a teaspoon in the blink of an eye. That bit wasn't so good--

“I've got stuff on tonight, maybe we could go downtown instead?” She grinned because she couldn't meet the Bat yet. Not today with a limp he'd surely notice.

_Why the fuck not?_ She thought on the other hand. _You only live once and at my rate I'll be dead by next Tuesday._

_Bye-bye, Medkit._ She realised seconds after she'd agreed and Steph had clapped her on the back and bounced back to her table.

“Да!” Aleksandr laughed, “I believe you have finally made another friend, Rachel!”

“Shut up and eat your shitty soup, Russian.”

“Ah, you zee, that is where you are terribly vrong— it is not shitty at all, you zee—!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Да (dah) mеаns Yes/Yay in Russian.


	2. Sundaes and Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of BioShock 1 & 2, dodgy ice cream flavors and a tad of bi-awkwardness and anxiety. 
> 
> Aka, Rachel is a confused jelly bean who needs a hug.

 

 

Tim met her by the gates first. And by _met_ , Rachel means they walked out together because Tim had dragged her along quite forcefully.

"Sorry about this," he was saying, bag hitched high on his back as he wavered about the sidewalk waiting for the others. "Steph can get carried away with herself, sometimes."

Rachel waved him off, sticking her leg behind her to lean against the wall. If any teachers seen her she'd probably get in trouble but that was the least of her worries. Her leg that was appearing to hold her up on the ground, was in fact, her good leg.

Her bad leg, the right one was the one with the shoe's sole against the wall. And it was stinging like all fucking hell. For those pussies out there that didn't know what that means; _i_ _t hurt like an elephant had stood on her and a bear came along later and chewed her up like in that movie The Reverent._

(A damn good movie that was, though.)

It... _stung._

_Yeah,_ she huffed to herself, revelling in the silence as Tim searched for his next words. _It just stings, shut up and take it, Grayson._

In fact, it was a wonder why her injury was pestering her so much today. Batgirl had been out and about since late 2014, since she was 12. Rachel'd been shot in the knee before— okay, yeah, maybe _not_.

That was probably why it hurt so much. She'd never been shot in the knee before. Her leg yes, but even then it had been a mere graze.

Never had Rachel needed to pull a bullet out of her kneecap with her fingers after nearly cutting said fingers off with the end of her batarang, specially sharpened for up close encounters, blatantly hoping that the bullet hadn't shattered anything _too_ important.

Her head hurt too. She wondered if it was because of the contacts and the words that'd been crawling in front of her eyes all day thanks to them. She'd have to fix that. Later. Funny that it happened right after winter break.

"Hey, Tim, Rachel!" Stephanie called, breaking the silence they'd settled into. "Hope we didn't keep you two long."

Behind her was Cassandra and Jason, both looking none too happy but masking it in their own way. Cass looked indifferent with her eyes blank and Jason trailed along looking bored, his hands in his pockets.

"Nice to meet you two," Rachel nodded at them, sticking out a hand which Cassandra gingerly took.

"Cass," the black haired, sharp eyed girl nodded, giving a firm shake for such lithe hands. Her pale skin shone in the cloudy light and gave her an ethereal look. Rachel hoped her hands weren't sweaty.

"You probably already know my name, but I'm Rachel." Rachel grinned, doing her best to appear interested in the current conversation. She kinda just wanted to go to bed and sleep before her patrol at 11pm (10pm sometimes, it depended on crime activity, really).

"Jason," Jason said, voice surprisingly low. According to the contacts he was 14, with Cass being the same age as Steph at 18. He shook her hand like he was in a hurry and dropped it like she was infected. Rachel tried to hide her offense. "Can we jus' go now?"

Rachel didn't miss the veiled glare Stephanie sent Jason before said woman smiled. "You know how it is, Jay. Alf is gonna pick us up at five."

God, did they actually want to go downtown? Rachel had no money. Her limp, despite her having figured out how to mask it a bit better, was still obvious in her eyes.

_Shit_.

_What a way to fuck up, Grayson._ She hadn't thought that they were serious in their offer.

"So we'll go to the arcade." Tim suggested, his eyes bright. _God_. The arcade was halfway across the City.

"No!" Steph whined, "I vote the cinema. Who's with me?"

Dutifully, Cass raised her hand.

" _Come_ _on!_ What do you wanna do, Rachel?" Stephanie put her on the spot as no one else raised their hand.

Rachel blanched as four pairs of eyes landed on her, all staring. Waiting. She played it off cool, "I'm alright with anything, really."

"How 'bout ice cream?" Jason suggested and Stephanie's grin said it all. Inwardly, Rachel cringed. Ice cream wasn't really her thing.

 

 

Stephanie led them all to the dearest ice cream shop in the whole of Gotham, dragging Cassandra by her side the whole time. Jason staunchly refused to walk by Rachel so her and Tim were left at the end of their little possé.

"So," Tim started, halfway through the practical fucking _trek_. "What do you like to do?"

_Beating the shit out of criminals_ , she thought, crawling along like a snail. She was at least thankful they were walking quite slowly. "Gaming, listening to music. The usual nerdy shit, y'know."

"Funny," Tim chuckled, "You don't strike me as a 'nerdy' type either."

"I'm not exactly the brainy type like you," but her self made grappling hook and batarangs that still worked and constantly got her out of life threatening situations said otherwise.

Tim went silent as he flushed red. Then, "T- Thanks. What games do you like? I'm quite into BioShock 1, as old as it is."

Rachel side-eyed him, "BioShock 2's my literal baby. I love Eleanor and Delta. Mainly Delta."

"Eh," Tim made a face and the conversation paused for a moment as they had to split for a trash can sitting idly in the middle of the path. "I liked that one too but I felt that Topside was... there was no character development and Eleanor was a bit of a complicated damsel."

"But you have to admit, they had a beautiful father-daughter relationship. It was adorable. And Jonny Topside may not've been the most talkative but that doesn't mean there was _no_ character development. I mean, he rose from the dead and--"

"We're here!" Stephanie called and damn that woman had a thing for interrupting conversations didn't she? Pretty as she was, that didn't stop Rachel's irritation towards her.

Rachel sighed, turning away from Tim who seemed as equally peeved at the interruption. She looked up, finding the blinking sign of _Holsten's_ staring down at her.

The inside of the store was nice, with high chairs and a bar top along one wall and tables with various chairs around them. It seemed to have a very retro feel that Rachel respected. The checkered floor gave it away, along with the red leather bench-chairs at one wall.

"I have to try their new cookie dough flavour!" Steph cooed, squinting at the display of ice creams. "What you guys want?"

"Peanut Butter Swirl," Jason said decisively.

"Vanilla," Cass hummed, wandering off to find them a table.

"I'll take a plain chocolate cone." Tim smiled.

Stephanie stared at her. "And what do you want, Rachel?"

Rachel floundered, "I'm fine, honestly—"

"Nonsense, it's on me, girl!" Steph laughed and ringed the little bell on the counter "Yo, Michael; what's todays special?"

"She comes here often," Tim whispered to her as a bulky man with a small paper boat lookalike hat came over and beamed at Steph.

"Miss Stephanie!" The man clapped his large hands together and smiled pleasantly, "Today's Wednesday so we've got the Chocolate Sunday on, Cookie Crumble and our newest; Kiwi Spin. A new take on kiwi and vanilla."

Stephanie looked back at her and Rachel understood why she was Spoiler from the intimidating look in her eyes alone. "Well, mi'lady?" The girl smiled.

"Just chocolate, please," Rachel replied, not wanting to make more of a scene than she already had. People were _staring._

Stephanie didn't seem happy with that, so she added, "A chocolate sundae for her, Mike. The others want their usual. I, on the otherhand, will try that marvellous Cookie Crumble—"

Tim must've noticed her now eternal embarrassment becuase he nudged her and dragged her over to the table which Cass and Jason had already ran off to, leaving Stephanie to pay like she said.

"She can be overwhelming sometimes, sorry." Tim said out of nowhere as Rachel spotted Cass' chosen table. It was in the back corner with a perfect vantage point over everyone and a clear view of the door.

Seemed the Bats were paranoid.

"What're you apologising for, silly?" She tried for a smile that turned more into a smirk. "I'm just socially awkward, don't mind it."

Tim smiled shyly back and somehow this smile seemed more authentic than any of his other ones. "Don't worry, I'm the same. Terry literally has to drag me out of my room when it's time for trai—  _school_."

Rachel didn't mention the near slip up, letting Tim think she'd overlooked it, as the boy continued on to complain about how his eldest brother, Terry, had to get up at the crack of dawn because he was constantly awake no matter what time you saw him. When they got to the table, Jason gladly joined in.

"Terry just likes everything done right, so he does it himself," Cass chirped as Stephanie flounced over with their ice creams and passed them out. Rachel faltered at the huge glass hers was in, rich chocolate sauce oozing down the side along with a Hershey's bar broken into segments and splattered on top.

"Talk about over the top much," Jason rolled his eyes.

"That's quite normal for people with OCD, perfectionism comes along with it hand in hand, usually." Rachel said minorly confused by their avoidance of the subject. Everyone stared at her, unblinking.

"How'd you know that?" Tim asked, his eyes suddenly twinkling with curiosity. "That Terry has OCD?"

Rachel floundered, trying to recall how she knew it. "I— uh. It might've been in the paper or something, I don't know I just remember it from somewhere. Maybe Miranda mentioned it or something."

Steph took pity on her and changed the subject even if everyone else around the table was still giving her odd looks. "Miranda?" She diverted.

Rachel looked down, no longer able to take the stares that seemed to jab into her very being. She poked at the mountain of an ice cream with her spoon.

"My adoptive mother," she said, trying to keep any and all ice out of her voice. ( _Her cheek stung with the slap, head shooting to the side so violently it was a miracle she didn't get whiplash. "Hore," hissed the woman that was supposed to be her_ mother.) "Amanda Miranda Croydon."

Very suddenly the eyes on her were burning with surprise, unrelenting in their gazes. It made her immensely uncomfortable, so much so that she started tapping her fingers on her skirt in a nervous habit she'd thought long gone. Great, next she'd be tugging at her shirt's hems again.

"Holy shit," Jason said and immediately got an elbow to the arm from Cass for cursing. "You're that lady in Accounting's daughter?"

"Adopted," Rachel corrected but no one payed her any mind.

"Wow," Steph said, eyes narrowed as she apparently recalled Miranda. "There's like no similarities between you two, like, _at all_."

"And Amanda's so snappy," Tim noted.

"Snappy?" Jason laughed cruelly. Rachel tried to ignore the bad feeling welling up in her gut. "More like scary as hell. How do you live with her?"

Rachel shrugged, picking at her sundae as she scooped a spoonful into her mouth. It was cold. "I tend to avoid her, she isn't entirely fond of me."

"Then why adopt you?" Cassandra asked, the only one seemingly actually paying attention to her words. She also wasn't afraid to brace the subject.

"Don't know," Rachel licked at the spoon. This was probably going to be her only meal until tomorrow so she might as well enjoy it. She'd have to walk home and that would at least take half an hour, meaning by the time she got home Amanda would've already served dinner. Rachel doubted the woman would let her into the kitchen afterwards. She was 'fussy' like that. "I think it was to improve her reputation or something? Who knows."

"Hey, what's your number?" Stephanie budged in.

Rachel panicked, not at all liking the feeling in her gut. "Um, I don't have a phone."

_Because I dismantled it to make my eye contacts' tech_.

"That's a shame," Steph whined, "No phone at all?"

Rachel didn't think Amanda or Jonathan would like a Wayne ringing up their house phone so she shook her head. "Nope."

"Damn," Jason whistled, peering at the clock in the corner. "Would ya look at the time?"

Cass pulled out her phone - the latest iPhone, soft blue gel case and all - and blinked, "It's five to five, I'm sure Alfred will be coming to collect us."

"Sweet," Steph hummed, pulling out her own fluffy pink cased iPhone and tapping away at it furiously. "I'll text Alf to pick us up here."

Rachel returned her attention to her sundae and found it barely half-eaten. Feeling sick, she pushed it back and noticed how Tim was watching her. She raised an eyebrow and the boy turned away, cheeks red.

Stephanie's phone vibrated, a jaunty tune coming to it as she received a text. "Alf's here, we gotta go."

Rachel stood, smiling now as she let Tim out from where he'd bundled himself in the corner.

"Thank you," she nodded to Stephanie who merely smiled.

"Don't worry about it," the girl said, sparing her sundae a glance, before dragging them all outside.

A black, sparkling limo pulled up, a greying haired man behind the wheel. _Alfred_ _Pennyworth,_ chittered her contacts. _Wayne Family Butler. 62. Alias: Agent A._

"Bye then," she waved as Jason and Cass filled in the back and struck up a conversation with Alfred.

Tim blinked at her as Steph slipped in too. "Right, thanks for coming, Rachel. You sure you don't want us to drive you home?"

Rachel thought of her getting out of the limo, Amanda seeing and sneering at her, asking when she'd befriended one of those damned Waynes. The backlash would be there for _months._

Her stomach jumped into her throat. "Oh-- no, I'm good. Thanks." She choked out and in her silence Tim waved to her and they were gone.

The rain started ten minutes later when she wasn't even halfway home. It got heavier after a few minutes and only then did Rachel let herself cry as she kicks at the stones on the path, cursing.

She hated how they made her feel so _inferior_.

 

 

 

"I trust you had a good time," Alfred smiled from behind the wheel, turning to wink at them.

"She's Amanda Croydon's daughter," Stephaine said because she was still stuck on that.

"Indeed?" Alfred said, "I was not aware that Mrs Croydon had another child."

"She's adopted," Jason filled in.

"And she knew about Terry's OCD," said Tim. There was an odd feeling in his gut that he was stuck between identifying as admiration or queasy caution. Maybe it was both.

"Oh?" Even Alfred sounded surprised. "I was not aware that  _t_ _hat_ was public knowledge."

And that was the thing, it _wasn't_.

So how did she know?

"That Amanda's quite the shunner too, y'think she told her family?" Jason offered becuase it was the only safe route they could possibly take without labelling Rachel as a threat. Tim liked Rachel, he didn't want to have to avoid her.

"It is possible, young Master Jason." Alfred nodded. "Perhaps you should bring it up with Master Bruce at dinner, I'm sure he'll be able to do something."


	3. Howl for the Homeland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Terry's insecure. (Guys, don't judge me on the title, idk what's happening.)

 

Terry sat down at the dinner table by Bruce's side, opposite of Damian who narrowed his eyes at him welcomingly.

"How are you today, Terry?" Bruce asked as everyone else filled into the dining room, taking their seats. All seven.

Uneven.

There was only nine of them.

God how _un_ _even._

"Okay," he hummed, forcefully pulling his eyes away to stop himself from obsessing over the number. It ticked in the back of his mind, urging him to fold his napkin five times, then seven. Twelve, there, he was okay. Even. It was even. "How was managing the company alone for a day?"

Bruce smirked, playing along with him. As if the man had struggled while Terry was stuck in bed, obsessing over unsymmetrical things. "It went alright. I might've increased Mrs. Croydon's hatred of us overall but otherwise everything went swimmingly."

"Wow, hold up," Stephanie called from beside Cass who'd ended up beside Damian. "You talking about Amanda Croydon?"

Damian rasied an eyebrow so Bruce didn't have to. "Are there any other Mrs. Croydons, Brown?"

Stephanie brushed the older boy off with the stubborn resilience that made her Spoiler. "Did you know she had a daughter?"

"Rachel's adopted, Steph," Tim jumped in which Terry found odd but pleasing. The boy wasn't one to speak much at dinner time, preferring to sit and observe. "She told us that twice."

Jason snorted, "Timbo's gotta crush on 'er."

True to the tale, Tim blushed. "No, I don't, Jason!"

Terry smiled, "A crush isn't something you need to be embarrassed of, Timmy. It's actually kinda cute, this is your first one after that girl in second year, right?"

"Oh my god," Barbara, who was beside Terry, who then had Tim and Jason beside her in that order, cooed. "I remember her. Little Samantha Wikhurl! She was adorable with her little glasses and she was _so_ your type, Tim!"

"And what about Amanda's daughter?" Bruce salvaged the conversation as Tim looked ready to become a tomato. "What's her name?"

"Rachel Croydon," Tim said. "She never mentioned her real surname."

"Maybe 'cuz ya never asked," Jason snarked.

"Odd." Terry said, he didn't recall Amanda ever fawning over a daughter. "I've never heard Amanda talk about her. You'd think for a woman such as she would-?"

He trailed off and Duke shrugged from Jason's other side. "I mean, 'manda ain't 'xactly the type ta talk 'bout anyone other than Thomas."

"She did say Amanda was not too fond of her," Cass added, jabbing at her carrots. "She expressed a pain at her adoption as well."

"What?" Tim blinked, looking up from where he'd went to staring at his dinner. "She did? When?"

"It was in her eyes," Cass said, cryptic as ever.

"Why're we talking about her?" Barbara asked, not one for gossip unless she got something out of it.

"Oh!" Stephanie clicked her fingers in front of her in such a fashion Terry likened it to them catching fire. "She knew about Terry's OCD."

The table fell to a hush at that and Terry himself cocked his head to the side.

"Pardon?" He spoke in the quiet. "I was not aware that we'd made that public knowledge."

So what if he was insecure about his 'disorder'? It didn't give Bruce or anyone but him the right to tell everyone that Terry needed to flip the light switch on thrice after entering a room, or that he obsessed over even numbers too much even on the good days.

"It hasn't been," Bruce declared quite pointedly, no doubt having noticed how Terry's breathing had picked up in the wake of a panic attack. He made an effort to breathe calmly, pushing aside the panic for surprise.

"Then how does she know?" He questioned, maybe saying it a bit too snappishly.

"She got all panicked when we asked her but I'm pretty sure Amanda told her, because it was either that or the newspaper." Stephanie shot him an apologetic look. They all knew how he disliked people knowing about his Obsessive Compulsive things. He felt it made people look down on him more.

In a place where he'd be taking the role of CEO at Bruce's death, Terry could not afford for people to treat him like a child because of something he couldn't help.

Barbara shook her head in dismay, the others having quite similar reactions of disappointment or annoyance. "I knew the woman was bad but that's just _low._ She must really hate you, Bruce, if she goes that far to ruin your entire name with her family."

"It's not like Mr. Croydon likes me either, Barbara." Bruce muttered, he'd adopted the serious frown he got whenever he was irritated at the people around him not following orders. "I'll have a little chat with her tomorrow. How did this come about?"

"What? Rachel?" Steph was smiling devilishly before she even ended her question. "Well, Timmy-"

Tim took over before Stephanie could ruin his reputation with her dramatics. "I bumped into Greggory Alóver in the hallway the period before lunch, he overreacted and Rachel popped up and broke his nose on the locker."

Duke burst out lauging first, Terry and Barbara joining him not a second later. The ones who'd no doubt already heard the story just smiled while Damian and Bruce both smirked. They all knew who Alóver was, and what sort of a prick he was.

"Y'serious?" Duke cawed, "Hot damn, I hated that kid when I was back there. S'pose he got what he deserved, hmm?"

"Yeah," Tim was smiling shyly now too, scratching the back of his neck. "She basically helped me out and when I told Steph she went over and invited her out to ice cream."

"That sounds like Stephanie," Terry grinned. He directed his next words to said demon. "So is she sister-in-law material?"

Stephanie's grin grew as Tim squeaked in horror. "I dunno yet, she's nice but she seems bored most of the time."

"Bored?" Damian joined in. "Be clear in what you say, Brown."

"You heard me, Mister O-Dark," Steph butted back. "She seems bored, doesn't she Cass?" She elbowed Cassandra, looking for backup.

Cass nodded, "The girl appears to be paying no attention when she is, in fact, raptly listening."

"That type then," Terry said. Most of the Clan were that kind of people - _reticent_ \- in conversation with others, it was what made them so good at their jobs.

"Yep, seems like a real nerd too," Jason snipped. "Her and Tim were practically _droolin'_ over their video games on the walk over."

"I'll have you know it was BioShock we were talking about." Tim frowned, aggresively cutting at his chicken.

Terry laughed, narrowly avoiding choking on his milk. "BioShock? Jesus, I remember when that _came out_ , Timmy!"

Barbara shot him a shrewd look, "Don't make it sound gay, Terry."

The loudmouths of the table (namely, Duke and Steph) burst into laughter. Bruce sighed.

"Sorry," he worked out past his own chuckles. "I didn't mean for it to sound like that."

"We'll support you if you're gay, Terry," Stephanie reassured, winking. "Don't worry."

Terry rolled his eyes but he knew he was smiling. "Sure, Steph."

"I believe we actually had a decent line of conversation going before it was interrupted," Damian growled, stabbing at his salad meaningfully, dark eyes glowering at them all.

"Ah, right," Tim jumped back in. "She's alright really-"

" _You like her._ " Jason and Steph sing-songed in unison.

"Shut it, yous two," Duke barged in. "Go on, Timmo."

Tim huffed at the nickname. "Really, there's nothing more to say on the matter."

" _Ooo,"_ Steohanie pulled out her melodramatics. "Timmy's huffing!"

"Leave him be, Stephanie." Bruce chided playfully. "Anyone else want to propose a new topic before I begin on tonight's Bust plan?"

Silence met him as they calmed down.

"No? Good." He continued, "Now after a week's worth of stakeouts we've finally pinpointed the Riktoel Gang's hideout where they also appear to be pushing out their drugs to circulate around Gotham-"


	4. Bats, Birds and the one Stray

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rachel's adoptive bro isn't that nice. 
> 
> ~~~ 
> 
> Batgirl protects her territory, whether she crashes a Bat Clan outing or not.

 

 

Thomas came up behind her as she shut the door, showing off his biceps as he planted one of his hands on his hip. She didn't need to turn around to know he was frowning but she did anyway. "Where the hell've you been?"

"Nowhere," Rachel smirked, shrugging off her backpack to clutch it in her hands. She headed straight for the stairs.

"Nowhere is _somewhere_ , maggot." Thomas, her adoptive brother, hissed.

Rachel laughed at his new nickname for her. "As if it's any of your business, asshat."

She sprinted up the stairs to the sound of Thomas raving about how he wasn't an ass, throwing the odd insult in there too.

  

 

Black Bat frowned at the warehouse. By all sides it appeared to be a normal warehouse, dull bricked walls, grey alluminium pannelled roof and a roller shutter door out by the front for seeimgly innocent delivery vans that came round like clockwork.

Excpet the fact, of course, that the warehouse was legally abandoned.

Otherwise, it blended right into the nonexistent buzz of Gotham City's old dockside.

// ** _Call in,_** \\\ Terry called, his red eyed form crouched a few rooftops over to Black's right.

// ** _Present, Mr Teacher, Sir._** \\\ Spoiler snickered.

// ** _Be serious, Spoiler._** \\\ Oracle chirped over the comms, safe back at the monitors in the Cave. // ** _All cameras are fully functional, 'Wing. I've got you guys' backs._** \\\

// ** _In position,_** \\\ Black added, making sure her gauntlets were fully stocked with batarangs that she could fling at will.

// ** _I, too, am in position._** \\\ Damian snipped, tone tense. He _was_ the nearest to the warehouse and the most in danger of being caught so it made sense for him to be weary.

// _ **Me and Robin are in place.**_ \\\ Red Robin confirmed.

Black blinked confusion just as Sketcher spoke up, // _ **Y'all shouldn't see each other, Red.**_ \\\

// _ **Shit,**_ \\\ there was a bit of scruffling on the line and Black distinctly heard the zip of a grappling. Then, Robin spoke. // _ **In m'place now, sorry.**_ \\\

// _ **We're all active,**_ \\\ Bats grunted, his cape blustering in the wind that rumbled down the docks. He was crouched on an old chapel's spire that had been long abandoned, much like most of this side of the dock. It was just _too_ old. // _ **Resume approach in 3, 2—**_ \\\

Batgirl appeared on the roof of the warehouse suddenly, her venetian red hair flitting around her cowl as she pulled her black hood down. Bruce cut off abruptly as he, and everyone, paused to stare in shock. Batgirl saluted them cheekily before throwing something that blasted a hole in the roof and jumping down, out of sight. Screams followed her descent.

// _ **Go!**_ \\\ Batman thundered, streaking out of his place to flush feet-first through a crappy window. The Bat Clan may not've fully met (or _ever_ met) Batgirl in her four-ish years of activity but they went to great lengths to appear as a united force. The public didn't need to know there was a rogue vigilante running amuck in their City.

So united force it was.

Black Bat sprang into action, grappling down to burst through the small black door beside the shutter. It collapsed easily, allowing her into the expansive room instantly. There were men everywhere, dressed in the familiar get-up of high-viz vests that the Riktoel Gang seemed to have taken a misguided liking to.

Batgirl was in the thick of it already, twirling and punching and kicking like an avenging angel. Bats was off to her right, throwing out a hundred batarangs a minute. The others burst their way into the building but Black payed them no heed, instead going around the sides, sticking to their original plan, and picking off those who tried to run from her brothers or sister.

"Please!" Screamed the voice Black recognised to be the boss's from audio recordings of hushed conversations. Harkness Olovn was his name. Batgirl was hovering over the slimy man, coldly toying with a sharpened black batarang of her own making. With distaste, Black realised the bastard was begging. "Please I have a family, I have a wife and kids, please!"

Batgirl shook her head, batarang slipping between her fingers with such nonchalance Black wondered if she really just _didn't care_ for the man's life. "If ya really cared all that much you wouldn't'a crossed me. Your wife can continue to do the job she does anyways."

Harkness shivered as Batgirl leaned forward, "I— I told my men to not enter the building— I'm sorry, please, spare me. I'll do anything!"

Batgirl laughed and something about it made Black shiver with fright, maybe it was how her voice modulator made her sound icy, or maybe it was how it made the laugh sound _insane. "'Fraid_ I don't care for men who switch loyalties at the snap of his or anothers fingers."

The batarang was released and Harkness wasn't begging anymore. He was too busy choking on his own blood.

Batgirl pulled the 'rang from Olovn's throat and looked up, meeting Black's eyes. The woman smiled and strode over to her, knocking out a thug with a punch as she came. She radiated confidence, the soft blue light washing over every centimetre of ground she touched.

"So you'd be the infamous Black Bat?" Batgirl grinned crookedly, offering a shockingly strong handshake. "It's good to finally meet one of the Clan people club me 'long with. I'm-"

"Batgirl," Black interrupted then schooled her expression so the other woman couldn't see her embarrassment. "Apologies. I too am glad to be meeting you. You said Harkness crossed you?"

Batgirl didn't look willing to elaborate. Batman strode over, his unbridled gait signalling the complete take down of the gang. "You must be Batgirl, I've heard a lot of things about you."

The woman held firm under Batman's stern gaze and took Bats' hand and shook it with orgulous. If she seen Bats staring at the dead body of Olovn, she didn't bring it up. "Pretty sure I've heard more 'bout your brood than you yoursel', big man."

Black Bat stayed back, watching and analysing as the rest of the Clan were introduced.

Batgirl seemed to know who they all where anyway, standing at a height to rival Spoiler's in-suit impressive 5'10. If Black had to guess, with Batgirl's firm structure and good stance, she stood at a good 5'11, especially with that inch of heel on her black boots. There was a stark red bat on her chest with too many sharp edges and two black pinpoints for eyes. Up close it obviously wasn't one of theirs but from a distance it held a striking resemblance. She spoke with ease and her smile was red but strained, like she was on a timer.

Sure enough, once she'd been introduced to them all she cleared her throat. "It was nice meetin' y'all and everythin', but I've gotta go. Batgirl actually has ta stick to her patrol routes, y'know."

Apparently she also knew about Jason's terrible habit of calling it a night halfway through his route. Black is willing to bet the boy would've been blushing up a fire could they actually see his face, if he were facing them. She could already see how red his ears were from how he'd ducked his head.

Robin, as it was, shifted silently in defense as Batgirl smirked at him, unseen. Something in her black near invisible utility belt pinged softly and her lenses seemed to glow that bit brighter. She had tech, that was for sure. Black wondered where she got it from, if she made it herself or if she bought it somewhere. 

She clicked her tongue, "Really gotta go now. T'was a pleasure, Bats an' Birds."

With the ching of a grappling hook connecting to the scarred aluminium roof, she was gone.

"I'm just meant to fall into one of those catagories?" Spolier scoffed to the silence. Black Bat rolled her eyes.


	5. Early Morning Stroll

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nightmares and waking up too early is today's schedule, Rachel finds.

 

 

_"Tell me... How do you sleep at night after all the things you've done?"_ _Her dad asked, gripping onto her wrist._

_John Grayson looked appalled._

_She hesitated, a bad feeling welling up from the center of her stomach to consume her entire being. "I don't, tătic (daddy). I don't."_

 

Rachel burst upright in her bed, panting as sweat rolled down her in rivets. Patrol had ended a few hours after her run in with the Clan and her dealing with that damn Harkness. Otherwise it had been quiet, with the only disturbance being her pinged for a territorial breach which had been nothing more than a mugging.

No worries, the man was dead now. No more trespassing on her territory that people payed good money to be kept clean and protected. There was a reason why she was able to have such good tech and a suit. Even if most of the protection money did go into making sensors for her territory, that pinged her suit if outsiders crossed them, she was still able to spare some for her suit upgrades.

"I dream though," Rachel croaked, laughing at her own damn dream. A glance to her green lettered analogue clock read _5:43._ "Damn it."

With her history, Rachel knew she wouldn't get back to sleep. _Only two hours tonight,_ she thought as she crawled out of bed, weary limbs dragging.

The only good news after killing Harkness was that she hadn't gotten hurt after last night—or was it the night before? She could never tell; if it's three am, is it morning or tomorrow?

Her damn knee had stung for the entirety of patrol though. When she'd finally peeled the suit off, at the fine hour of 2 am, she had found an entire puddle of blood in her right boot.

Her leg was still streaked red from the blood. It had fucking _congealed_ on her skin.

She'd had to dunk the entire leg of the suit in the bath tub too, trying to clean the thing out as quietly as possible so she didn't wake up anyone. If she did that, she'd be dead before she was able to explain what she was doing.

Washing and trying to re-stitch the wound had been fun too.

It had taken her an hour overall to do everything.

It had felt like the longest hour of her life.

"Talk about it," Rachel huffed, making sure the suit was secure in the box under the floor board's under her desk. She shuffled over to her window and became immensely glad it was one of those large silled ones so she could easily sit on it along with a blanket. Because that was exactly what she did.

Rachel sat there, lost in her own world, staring at the street as everything slowly rose to the task of life. Only when the clock struck six did she get up, beelining for the bathroom as quickly as she could with a bum leg.

It hurt like hell. This time round, she couldn't tell herself it stung because it felt like pins were flowing through her veins, with ash being secreted on the wound.

_It hurt._

She very nearly collapsed in the bath, quickly pulling her leg out of the water as it _burned,_ hot static invading her vision as her ears rung. Holding back a fitful sob, Rachel washed her hair weakly, continuing on to wash her body, leaving out her leg.

When she was done maybe she'd shed a few crocodile tears but her god damn leg was no longer _stained_ _red with her blood_. And so what if she hobbled along like a dead man, it was seven and for the mother of god she was lucky that no one in the damned house woke up this early.

'Cuz she really looked like an old woman on death's door.

After limping back to her room and changing into normal sweats, clothing that didn't hug her leg too tightly, she made it downstairs. Deciding to do things now, while she had peace, she set out for the door, unlocking it and locking it behind her.

With money in her pocket and old worn down trainers on her feet, Rachel pushed herself to walk to the local corner shop. It was 7:23 and she knew for a fact that the shop, _Squash's Store,_ opened at 7.

Only god knew why someone woke up _that_ early.

Ten minutes brought her to the store which would've otherwise only took five. Her leg felt numb by the time she was staring at the automatic doors.

"How can I help you, ma'am?" Squash asked, smiling brightly despite the time. Rachel knew him but he didn't know her. He was one of the ones that payed for Batgirl’s protection. "What would a young heart such as yours desire?"

"You make it sound like you're a fortune teller," Rachel said, trying for a laugh that she didn't feel.

Squash grinned. The man looked a bit like a druggie, with his greasy hair pulled back into a bun, his scruffy goatee and sunken eyes, but the neighbourhood loved him. He was the eccentric shop owner who got up too early and stood by the side of the elusive Batgirl.

His loyalty was known and no one dared to question.

Batgirl liked that. Enjoyed how no one opposed, either because she was a Bat or because she protected them all better than their previous gangs ever had. She liked her people and she hoped they liked her.

"I very well could be one," the man winked. His name wasn't actually Squash but he introduced himself as it continually and no one truly knew his real name to contradict him. "Y'never know."

Rachel managed a grimace.

"What'd ya need, kid?" He asked, hazel eyes getting a tad more serious.

"My, uh, brother cut himself yesterday and we've ran out'a bandages," she lied, the words coming too easily. An accent that wasn't hers came with the voice and Rachel likened it to one of Batgirl's soft tunes.

"Ah," Squash nodded, pushing himself away from the counter where he'd been leaning and meandering over to the furthest aisle from the door. "This 'ere's the medical body stuff aisle. Shout if ya need anythin'."

Squash left her at the start of the aisle, wallowing back over to his counter. Now by no means was the store large, but it wasn't small either. The aisle, of which there were five, was three shelving units long, on both sides. Even then the units had to be twenty inches long at best.

Rachel stumbled down it, eyes flitting over everything from shampoos to wrist and ankle braces.

_At least I know to come here if I fuck up again._

There were two types of medkits, one for sports and the other for a truck or van's front compartment. Rachel picked up the one labelled Advanced Sports First Aid Kit and unzipped it.

There was what one would want in it: gauze; small, medium and extra large band-aids; disinfectant; wrapping tape; Steri-Stitches and other necessary medical things, even eyedrops.

"Y'like that?" Rachel jumped, squealing as Squash spoke what felt like right next to her ear. She nearly snapped her neck turning to face him.

Squash grinned, unaffected by her miniature outburst. "I could do ya a deal if ya promise to not steal anythin' from it."

Rachel gasped, "I would never."

"I didn't doubt it," his breath smelled of mint. "How 'bout it, 20 bux."

She looked at the price tag which had a striking **$40** on it and smiled for real. "Yeah, um, thanks. That really helps."

"No problemo, kid. You come on over to the till whenever ya want an' I'll ring ya up."

"Thanks, Squash." Rachel nodded, picking up the medkit to cradle it.

Squash patted her shoulder, "Don't worry 'bout it."

Rachel scoured the shop and picked out an energy bar to slip into her suit's gauntlet before grabbing herself a small chocolate bar.

"That'll be $23.45, kid. Y'sure ya got that much?" Squash asked after he'd rung it all up.

Rachel dug out the territory money and gave him thirty bux. "Yeah, Batgirl doesn't let me go without."

She was gone before Squash could stop her, grabbing the plastic bag with her things in it on her way out.

She'd have to catch him before patrol.

 


	6. Rivers Are There To Be Blocked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim's a little heartbroken. Rachel's just trying to get by.

 

School was largely uninteresting with Rachel having rushed home to get changed (after dressing her wound and safely tucking away the medkit under the floorboards to be with her suit) before setting out to get some toast, then vacating the house. It had went well, with her getting out in time to see Amanda's glowering eyes staring at her from behind the woman's messy mop of hair.

"Rachel, friend!" Aleksandr called from her right as Rachel entered the school gates. Almost instantly she spotted the see-through container tub with familiar dumplings in it. "I got up early today and made us some peljmeni! Isn't vat great?"

"Well done, you lazy asshole." She huffed, slapping him on the back as he shoved the container into his backpack.

"Vell?" The Russian asked as they started walking to their form class. "How did it go?"

"Okay," she replied, _if you leave out the breakdown,_ "They didn't know who my mother was."

"Funny," Aleksandr observed, "That iz odd. You think they vould knov already, though I zuppoze Amanda doez not quite like the gozziping?"

"Trust me," Rachel snorted. "That's far from the case. You get her started on all of Thomas' 'great achievements' and you'll be dead quicker than she finishes."

The sarcasm was there, heavily implied in fact, and Alekdandr knew her well enough to not push the subject.

"Zo vhat did vou all do?"

"Ate ice cream at that expensive place on fifth." She responded, dumping her bag beside a random desk as Aleksandr plopped down beside her.

"Zhenley Cream?"

"No, Holsten's." Aleksandr made a noise of understanding. Their form teacher, Mrs Mundesley, stood up, clearing her throat.

"It's good to finally see a full attendance for this class for once," the woman who doubled as their English teacher shot the back corner of the room a glare where a group of common skivers sat. "Now, as you're all aware, we are currently reading The Lord Of The Flies and with class tests coming up soon, I want a five page essay and a shoebox scene made with you and a partner."

"Will you be picking out partners, Miss?" Cheryl asked after Mrs Mundesley nodded at her raised hand.

"No, you may do that. It will be due in for this Tuesday. Thank you class, now skedaddle off to your next classes."

Rachel groaned.

 _I'm meant to be dead by Tuesday,_ she recalled the thought. She also didn't have time to be slumping about writing a fucking _five page essay_ and making a shoebox scene.

 _I'm not even any good at art,_ she thought.

"You be my partner, Rachel?" Rachel pulled her mind out of the clouds to find Aleksandr staring down at her, looking lost. "I am not good at writing your language."

"But you're good at the shoebox thing?" She asked hopefully.

"Да, friend!" Aleksandr looked like an overly excited six year old. He even fucking clapped his hands. "My parentz are having date night tonight zo-?"

"Come over to mine at- y'know what, walk home with me. I can keep you until five-ish, maybe six." Rachel said, thinking fast. "Yeah?"

"Да! That is good."

 

 

"Hey, Rachel."

Rachel looked up from where she'd been discreetly rubbing at her knee. It was Tim. He looked worried.

"Wasup, Tim?"

"I was wondering if you had a partner for that English Assignment yet?" The boy sat down beside her which he would've gotten shouted at for in any other class but this was Geography and Mr Hodgson didn't give a damn so long as everyone passed his tests.

Rachel made a face, "Sorry, Tim. I'm doing it with Aleksandr."

"Ah," the boy looked devastated but he blinked and suddenly there was a blank canvas to paint on. He smiled, "That's fine. I'll find somebody else."

She didn't know why that hurt so much.

She covered it up with a shrug, "Sweet. You might wanna get someone before the end of today though. So you can get started."

Tim didn't speak for the rest of the lesson. Rachel _was not_ worried. Definitely not.

 

 

"Timmo!" Stephanie caught Tim's arm as she rushed by him and hustled him over to their table. He went without the complaints he'd normally voice. "What's wrong, kid?"

Stephanie swears, if that asshole Alóver had been troubling Tim again, Spoiler _will_ pay him a visit.

"Got an assignment for English," Tim said, surprising her and the others.

"Wha'?" Jason snorted, nearly choking on his sandwich. He had to forcefully swallow before he could continue. "Y'all strugglin' wit' English?"

"It is not that," Cass said, poking peacefully at her sushi. "Is it, Timothy?"

"Rachel turned down my offer to be partners for it," the boy sulked.

Jason really did choke on his sandwich this time. Stephanie worried she'd have to do the Heimlich Manoeuvre on him before he settled down from coughing up a lung.

"Tha's hilarious, Timbo! Sulkin' over gettin' rejected!"

"Shut up, _kid."_ Tim hissed, viciously jabbing at his salad that he slammed onto the table with a thump.

"Timbo go' rejected! Timbo go' rejected!" Jason howled, people were beginning to stare at them now. Not that Stephanie didn't appreciate the attention but this was a bad time.

" _Jason,"_ she whistled, voice rough and tone dangerous. "Shut up."

Jason sealed his lips shut and went back to munching on his sandwich.

"Surely she did not mean to offend you," Cass spoke up eventually. Tim was glaring at his salad.

"She's already working with Aleksandr," Tim groaned.

"So?" Stephanie voiced. "They're obviously _just_ friends, Tim."

Tim huffed, his cheeks puffing up as he looked around for Rachel. She was a few tables behind them, her and Aleksandr poking around in the boy's lunchbox. Tim watched them for long enough to see Rachel eat what appeared to be a dumpling off Alek's fork.

Tim turned around with a broken whine and Stephanie smothered her wince.

 _Doesn't look at all like 'only friends', Stephanie._ She berated herself, patting Tim on the shoulder.

"How 'bout we go down to the diner on thirtieth after patrol, yeah? I'll ask who wants to come."

Tim just nodded. Stephanie took that as permission enough.


	7. The Diner on 30th

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Half the batfamily have an outing while Rachel just can't seem to catch a break. 
> 
> Sorry, I meant _Batgirl._

 

"Nice room," Aleksandr noted as he stepped into the space. It was by no means large nor small, rather in between with enough room for a single bed, a desk over by the large silled window and an entire wall dedicated to shelves on which books and figurines sat.

"Thanks," she said, shuttng the door behind her to go and rummage through her wardobe, which hulked alone beside the bed, in search of an intact shoebox.

"Thiz iz zimply adorable!" Aleksandr cooed and Rachel pulled her head out of the dark box to find the Russian making baby faces at a fluffy bunny, no bigger than the shoebox she was looking for.

It was a furry brown bunny, with a white belly, pink paws and two beady black eyes. It was old, Rachel could definitely say. Maybe ten or so years old, and a past gift from her real _mami_ and _tătic._

She'd named him Mr Ginger, despite him _not_ being ginger.

"Yeah, he's an old present." She said, pulling out the shoebox and showing it to the slightly taller boy. "This good?"

"Дa!" Aleksandr cheered, taking the box to inspect it. He pulled some old wrapping paper out of it. "Thiz iz good, дa friend!"

"Let's get started then. I want you gone by five."

 

 

Batgirl whistled slowly as she sat on the shop's low roof. It was flat and clean enough to sit on so she did. It was ten so the shop should be closing in three, two, one—

"See ya later, my good friend." Squash hummed, closing and locking the door behind him with a click. He was halfway through pulling the shutter down when he realised someone other than him was whistling on the empty street.

"Who's there?"

"No one," she said, voice sounding deeper but still noticably feminine. She stopped whistling. If Rachel were honest, to her it sounded like a ruler's demeanour, her voice. It sounded like a _Queen_ who knew what she was doing.

To others it sounded cold and clipped.

But fuck, she could dream.

Squash laughed, looking up at her as he noticed her now still legs. Relief washed across his face. "Batgirl, pleasure to be seein' ya, 'gain."

"Indeed, Squash."

"Tristian, please, ma'am." Squash smiled and apparently that fact about no one knowing his true name was now false. "Jus' call me Tristian."

"Very well. You helped out one of mine today, Tristian," she offered the folded up wad of cash to the man. He took it and counted it, his eyes widening at the amount.

"Please, I couldn't, ma'am." He tried to push the cash back at her but she refused to notice.

"Take it. Consider your protection payed for the next two months." She said gruffly.

"What? Thank ya, really. This— Thank ya, ma'am." Tristian spluttered, his smile true and wider than the moon.

Batgirl shrugged, "Don't hold me on it for longer than that, Tristian. I appreciate people helping mine."

"Thank ya, ma'am!" Tristian turned to leave.

"Tristian."

"Yeah?" He turned around, his eyes twinkling in the street lights.

"It's Batgirl, not ma'am." The man grinned. "Safe home."

"Safe home, Batgirl!"

 

 

"This is the place," Spoiler tugged Red Robin into the diner, Black Bat and Nightwing following along at a leisurely pace.

If Terry was honest, the diner was a nice place with a 50's feel to it with plush cushioned benches in the booths. The place was big, with glass windows the entire way around the building, people shady and sketchy sitting in the seats in the center of the floor, chatting and laughing.

Conversation had been running high but when they entered the diner fell into a deathly silence. The middle aged woman behind the bar gulped.

"This 'ere diner's under the protection o' Batgirl. Cross us and you cross her." The woman sternly announced. She seemed frail but Terry could make out muscles under her sweater. Grey hair wasn't a sign of weakness, he knew well enough.

"Calm down, Gail." The very familiar voice of Batgirl drawled from their left. Terry whirled around and found the woman sitting in a booth, her left leg draped over the table and her back resting against the wall. Her white lenses bored into their souls. "They won't do nothin' while I'm 'ere."

Reassured, conversation picked up again, if a bit quieter than before.

Batgirl rolled her head in a motion for them to approach her and Spoiler, as fearless (or dumb) as ever, dragged Red over and plopped down opposite her.

Cass slipped in with Spoiler and Red while Terry was left to sit beside Batgirl, who graciously pulled her right leg (which had been stretched across the cushion) under her and tugged her left off the table, onto the ground to make room.

"Don't see much of y'all round 'ere." Batgirl observed casually.

A waitress approched them, nodding to Batgirl as she passed out five strawberry milkshakes. "On the house."

Batgirl flashed a canine showing grin at the girl who seemed pleased at the unsaid praise, quickly scurrying off to serve someone else.

Terry sipped at the milkshake, finding it to be very sweet. It was a nice sweet though. He'd drunk half of it before he realised there was a conversation going on. Batgirl smirked devilishly at him.

"Suppose you wouldn't," Spoiler smirked back. "We tend to stay up in the skies more."

"I'm aware," Batgirl grunted, something hard in her tone. She looked at Tim who was still moping, head nearly buried in his milkshake. "What's wrong with the bird?"

"Don't mind him. Lady killer got turned down for a game and is taking it like an all out rejection." Terry said and it was true. The kid had apparently been turned down by that Rachel girl for an English Assignment and Stephanie had proposed coming down to this diner to help him man up. Terry had been the only one to agree.

Aside from Cass, of course.

(But where Steph went, Cass followed.)

The perks of not really having a job that required one to go to work during the day. Also the joy of being Bruce's firstborn; he could work from home (so could Bruce but he preferred to make the journey). As it was, it was close to two in the morning and the rest of the Clan had called it a night. Jason had went home before he could be dragged along too, obviously knowing better than to hang about.

Batgirl grabbed her milkshake, holding it in front of her so she didn't need to bend over the table to drink it. Her Venetian Red hair curled about her in waves as she shook her head mirthfully. "God, kid, how old're ya? Sixteen? Seventeen?"

That was hitting close to home.

"You're a bit old to be crawlin' 'bout like a preschooler who got kicked off'a the swings. If ya like 'er - or 'im - go'an fuckin' tell 'em. Mopin' 'round like tha' don't get ya nowhere."

Tim had pulled his head up, his cowl's lenses glinting in the low lighting of the diner. "Thanks," he cleared his throat, looking determined. "I'll do just that."

Batgirl blew a breath out of her nose, leaning back against the plush of the bench. Her gauntlet lit up and projected an analogue clock which Terry thought was cool. "'S hittin' two. I've gotta few more hours ta patrol. See yous—"

The door opened then and a small boy, no older than ten rushed in, feet bare and clothing nothing more than rags. "Batgirl!" He wailed, interrupting the female vigilante. "Batgirl! Batgirl, please help, mommy's been shot! Mommy's been shot!"

Suddenly Batgirl wasn't sitting beside him anymore, she'd jumped over the table and was now crouching in front of the boy. Her gauntleted hand pulled his chin up so she could stare him in the eyes. He was crying and his blue eyes swam big and glossy in his head.

"Where?" Batgirl growled, dangerous tone no more recognisable than a feral animal's warning call.

Terry realised in that moment that the diner had fallen very silent. A look around wrought looks of anger, of concern and irritation. None of it was directed towards Batgirl, rather—

"Go'n kill the sick bastard, Bat." Gail growled, slamming down a glass. The cloth in her hand snapped like a whip into her other wrinkled palm and the sound seemed to be a catalyst.

"Yeah, go an' do us proud!" An older man called.

The diner exploded in shouts for Batgirl and Terry realised just how much these people in the lower parts of Gotham depended on the woman. How much they supported and stood by her.

And damn if it was a surprise.

Before, if Terry hadn't seen this, he would've immediately told someone that only druggies and the homeless flitted around after twenty-fourth street, when it started getting into Lower Gotham. But now, now as they all stood up, raising their drinks and fists to _a vigilante_ who had Bat in their name—

Now Terry hesitated to call them anything but loyal.

He blinked and Batgirl was gone, Gail beckoning the crying boy over to her bar, shuffling a milkshake over to him as others crowded round to help.

"Let's go home," he said to the others. No one argued.

Terry noticed the wad of cash Batgirl had left as a tip in the chaos and left one of similar size.


	8. Mizz Batgirl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It gets crazier from here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Отец means father/ dad in Russian.
> 
> Да/да means yes in Russian. 
> 
>  
> 
> (And BTW, this is a very crazy chapter. It calms down sorta after this, contrary to the summary.)

 

Rachel stumbled in through her bedroom window, barely able to pull off Batgirl's boots before her bedroom door burst open and she was met with the astonished face of Aleksandr.

"Vhat iz—?" Aleksandr started but Rachel was quicker, feet carrying her over to the door to grab and haul the boy into her room before slamming the door shut behind her.

"Vhat iz—?" Aleksandr started again, louder. Rachel pushed his face first into the duvet before he could rush into hysterics.

"Shut up," she growled. Patrol had ran on far longer than she'd anticipated, with her having not only to kill Harry's momma's shooter but also half a fucking gang. She'd spent the next few hours hunting down the rest of the gang and taking their territory.

It was safe to say that three more neighbourhoods were happier today than they were yesterday. Gail had happily taken in Harry.

Everyone was happy.

Except for Rachel.

Because she'd gotten no sleep and now she was seconds away from killing Aleksandr by asphyxiation. On cue, she released the pressure she'd been applying and tugged the boy up, to lie on his back.

He gasped at her, nearly purple in the face from oxygen deprivation, as she yanked out a batarang and pulled it taught against one of his throat's main bulging carotids.

"You _didn't see anything,"_ she hissed, lips twisting up into a scowl. "Why are you here?"

Aleksandr seemed to be going into shock. Rachel slapped him in the face. Hard.

"I— I forgot my backpack!" The Russian gurgled, trying to refrain from moving his throat. No one wanted his blood on their hands. Rachel mainly because blood was a pain to wash out of white fabrics. Which her duvet just happened to be covered in.

_What_ _damn_ _bad decision_ _making,_ she thought, then realised Amanda hadn't let her pick the duvet cover so technically it was that witch's fault. There was a reason why they called her Miranda and it wasn't because it was her second name. That woman always thought she knew what was best for everyone around her twenty-four-seven.

Rachel growled low, keeping the batarang in place incase he got any ideas, and pulled her head up to look around. Indeed, there in the corner sat Aleksandr's dull blue backpack. The same colour as the walls.

No wonder she hadn't noticed it.

_Damn it._

"You tell no one," she threatened, pushing the batarang deeper to draw a trickle of blood. Aleksandr winced, his eyes glowing in fear. "You'll never speak of this, if you do anything to alert others to my _situation_ I will _find_ you and _kill_ you myself, no matter _where_ you are. Understood?"

Aleksandr nodded fearfully, eyes nearly going crossed as he tried to look at the batarang. "Да, да, understood!"

Rachel sighed and pulled back the batarang, climbing off the boy to pace the length of her room.

God, she was fucked. Aleksandr wasn't exactly someone who could keep a secret, as far as she knew. Everyone would know within the hour and for all the people to find out for the first time in five years it just had to be the nosy bastard of a Russian, didn't it?

Rachel ran her shaking (shaking with anxiety) fingers through her hair and felt the sudden need to cut it all off. God this was so unfair. As much as she complained mentally about lack of sleep and aching limbs (like her leg right now) she wouldn't change it for the world. Saving people, helping them, protecting those weaker, and some stronger, than her gave her an adrenaline rush. It made her feel wanted. Needed.

When her people'd cheered for her she'd felt her gut flip-flop in joy becuase that was everything and more than what she could've wanted. Her people's _support._

Lower Gotham was hers and no fucking Russian kid could or would take that from her.

Rachel whirled around, intent on finishing the job when Aleksandr beamed up at her, still sitting on her bed. There was a trickle of blood halfway down his neck.

"I can help!" The boy said, obviously having been fiddling with her discarded boot as he held it in her hands. "Running in theze muzt be a pain, да? There iz barely any zole left in them, I can help. Become your zidekick, Mizz Batgirl!"

Rachel coughed to cover her heart exploding confusion, nevermind surprise. "What?"

Aleksandr laughed happily, his eyes scrunching up. "I t'ink you have forgotten who my Отец iz! I can help you with money, да? And I could be Computer boy!"

Rachel sucked in a breath, aghast at how fast this was going. "Like a sponsorship?"

"Да, да!" Aleksandr cheered, taking the batarang from her hand to inspect it. "I can help with theze too—my Отец haz production linez zitting unuzed in zome old factoriez of hiz. He vould not mind if ve took up rezidence to _play videogamez."_

That sounded damn good. New gear and support. But suspicion was part of her and it rose in her veins instead of blood. "How do I know you won't double cross me? How can I be _sure?"_

"If I vere to zay to my Отец you are my — how zay? — girlfriend, he vould not mind the money being zpent az he belivez in lavizhing a lady. I alzo do not have many other friendz, Rachel. You have my vord. No one will know of this, I zvear on my life."

Rachel went silent as she thought that over. Money, a sponsorship of sorts, a base, new gear and support all for just saying she was his boyfriend? That was a perfect— "Deal."

Aleksandr smiled, "May I collect my backpack nov, my girlfriend?"

Honestly, Rachel didn't love him but she was a good actor and she was sure he knew that and didn't like her either. This was a good cover, and she didn't mind the sound of it.

"As long as you think up of something other than 'my girlfriend', you douche." She grinned and glanced at her clock.

7:59.

"Shit."

Alek looked up and followed her line of sight. "Ah... zhit indeed."

They were late for school.

"I zuggezt you get changed while I clean up my neck."

She did just that.

 


	9. Appearances Are Not All They're Worth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim throws a bit of a hissy fit. 
> 
> And we get some ghost action.

 

 

Tim sat in a seat in form class, anxiously watching as the clock above Mrs Mundesley's desk ticked by. It struck 8 and Tim sighed, either Rachel was late (as usual) or she was sick. 

God how he hoped she was just late. Today was the day; today he'd ask her out.

"Roll call," Mrs Mundesley called out, startling Tim out of his reverie for a second before he settled back into it. "Sofia Albus."

"Here, Miss."

"Aleksandr Artem."

Tim frowned as no response came.

"Aleksandr?" Mrs Mundesley questioned, her brows furrowing. It was odd indeed, usually the Russian never missed a day of school _ever_. Sick or otherwise.

The door slammed open and Aleksandr burst through it, Rachel hot on his heels. "Prezent, apologiez for being late, Ma'am!"

Mrs Mundesley stuttered for a moment. "Ah, Aleksandr... Not to worry. You made it just in time."

Tim blinked at Rachel and found enviously how she appeared to be smiling more fondly at Aleksandr than usual. It was weird for the two of them to show up together, unless—

He sagged against the desk and nearly missed the sweet sing-song of Rachel's, "Present, Miss," past his self-deprecating berating.

He'd waited too long. _Damn it._

Aleksandr had her now.

As if the other boy knew his exact thoughts, they made eye contact. Aleksandr sent him the biggest shit eating grin Tim had ever seen.

He'd taken her.

Aleksandr was dating the girl he liked.

**_Aleksandr_** _was_ _dating_ ** _Rachel_** _._

Tim slammed down so hard on the desk its right leg buckled under the weight. He stormed out of the classroom to Mrs Mundesley's stunned echo of his name.

 

 

"You broke a table, Tim." Bruce wasn't happy. Of course, Tim wasn't happy either and he expressed that quite frankly in his permanent frown and how he picked at the vegan (because that damn asshole Damian had decided he didn't want anything to do with animals in him) lasagna.

For once, everyone could feel the tension in the air (which was a step forward for Stephanie). No one spoke.

"Why?" Bruce asked calmly, his tone level.

Tim shrugged fruitlessly. It was stupid now that he thought back on it and even with the tense atmosphere he'd probably get laughed at but he'd been _so angry_ that it had just _happened_.

"Tim," Terry tried, "C'mon kid, it's not like we'll kill you or anything—"

"We'll see about that, Terrance." Damian interrupted.

Terry shot Damian a glare that had the younger man backing down. He continued, "We just want to know what happened."

Tim remained silent. The lasagna looked disgusting. It was _green_ for godsake.

"Please, Tim."

Tim opened his mouth, not wanting his brother to _beg_ for something so idiotic. "It's silly, really."

"It's obviously not if it's got you all worked up like this, Timothy." Barbara pushed in, saying his name exactly like his mother used to when she'd halfheartedly chaste him for something.

That was the last straw.

(Didn't people always joke about that camel that transported straw but one day, an arrogant man loaded the camel with one straw too many and it broke the camel's back? The straw that broke the camel's back — a popular idiom that symbolized the resilience of humans; one wrong move and everythino fell.)

Tim stood up, pushing the chair back so forcefully it screamed like a dying cat. He left the room, sprinting up the stairs as fast as he could go.

He headed straight for the library.

 

 

Solomon Wayne was old. Old and alive but not quite.

You see, Solomon Wayne had died in 1959. But his spirit had lived, becoming bound to stately Wayne Manor thanks to his restless death of the flu at the ripe age of 88.

Years later, Bruce had came along and at some point he'd befriended a master of the dark arts —a fine man, Constantine—  and the Brit had bumped into him on a visit and graciously made him visible to all.

Now he provided the library a bit of character by floating about it and largely trying to make stubborn Damian more hospitable.

Alas, as they say, each day is a different day. Shown by the rising of the sun and the falling of the moon.

Today, Timothy was paying him a visit.

"What troubles you, child?" Solomon asked, materialising by the fireplace to sit beside the boy —or to appear as if he was— on his favourite three-seater Chesterfield. "I sense a gloom surrounding you. Quite unlike you, dear boy."

"It's stupid really, Great-Grandfather." The boy sighed.

Solomon clicked his tongue, "What have I said about that, young boy? Nothing is stupid if you're talking about it. And call me Grandpa!"

"That's Thomas' title," the boy said on a side note, hoping to get away from the topic at hand.

"Yes, well. My son is not here, now is he? I like to think he would've wanted me to bond with his child, if not grandchildren, and _Great-Grandfather_ makes me feel _old._ " Solomon wished he could touch the world of the living but not yet has there been a spell created for such (at least, not one that he was aware of). He wanted to pat the boy on the back, to reassure him someone was listening.

"Sure," Tim murmured and tried to sink into the couch but no one came to the library for any thing other than a conversation these days. Solomon wasn't letting a fish escape the net yet.

"What is it that troubles you, Timothy?"

"It's Tim, Grandpa."

Solomon shuffled himself on the couch, "Well? Is it Bruce problems?"

No reaction.

"What about silbing problems - I know me and Joshua had our fair share of squabbles."

Nada.

"School problems?"

Zip.

"Girl problems?"

Tim's right eyebrow twitched.

_"Aha!_ Girl problems. Those—" he hesitated, "Those are hard. Indeed."

His late wife never had forgiven him after that one time he'd gotten her a dress for her birthday instead of that pearl. Solomon's head just never had been for love. Business and love were two very different things after all.

"Just a bit," Tim snarked.

"What exactly has happened, Tim?" Solomon asked, getting his 'thinking cap' on.

"Another guy is dating the girl I like."

Solomon gasped in outrage, "Why that devil-worshipping lady stealer! I say, tell me who this 'guy' is immediately so I may promptly haunt him."

"Y—You can't do that," Tim stuttered.

"And why not?" Solomon huffed, completely missing the stuck look on Tim's face.

"Uh—because he won't know it was me that sent you!" The boy said in a hurry.

"Fear not, boy!" Solomon shook his fist in the air. "I shall write 'from Tim' on his wall once I'd be done!"

Tim sighed, "No, that's fine, Solomon. You don't need to go haunt him, he's a..."

"Nice 'guy'?" Solomon questioned, still not too sure about this 'guy' business.

Tim shrugged, eyes downcast. "Guess so, yeah."

"How did he steal her from you?" Solomon questioned in a burst of curiosity. "Did he whittle his way into her heart with roses or did he outright steal her from you?"

"He asked her out first." Tim admitted.

Solomon blinked, "Pardon?"

"You heard me," the boy repeated. "He asked her out first."

Solomon's brow creased in a flux. "I was under the impression he had _taken_ her from your grasp, Tim?"

"Oh," the boy deflated, shaking his head. "No. I just didn't ask her—"

"Then why are you lying about, boy?" Solomon raised his voice, floating up to willow in front of the currently empty fireplace. "She was never yours in the first place, why mourn something you never had, child?"

Solomon decided to cut his losses, feeling incredibly peeved.

"Good day, dear boy." He dematerialised back into the hearth leaving Tim to think alone.

 


	10. School

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry guys, the drama is coming soon!

 

 

Aleksandr's father not only had a few old factories in his possession, he also had quite a few companies. Focussing on tech or otherwise.

Within three days of Rachel confessing she didn't own a phone or any other gadgets, she received a top of the range phone, laptop and headphones. It was a nice surprise, if something that she could never hope to pay back.

Aleksandr had just smiled and shook his head when she'd said she'd repay him, responding with, "You need not do vat, Rachel. I tell you, it waz money vell zpent."

Currently, they were lazing about in one of Pitkar's (Aleksandr's father) biggest abandoned former factories. It was huge really, an old place for cars being built before they brought in robots. Overtime, a few robots had been installed - such as the grabby hands in one of the rooms - but overall the factory had turned out to just be _too small._ So they'd shut down, moved out and no one had taken up residence since.

Ergo, they were there. 'Playing Games'.

_God knows what that means_ , she thought, sucking at her spoon as she stared down the word document on her laptop screen. Aleksandr had found a secret minifridge in the control centre when they'd popped round last time to check the place out. Since then, he'd bought mineral water, ice cream and non-alcoholic beer for the mini box of doom.

Rachel had to admit, it _was_ cute though. Being spray painted a bright pink with a daisy sloppily drawn in the top left corner of the door. It looked like a toddler's art project.

Aleksandr had also washed out a few of the bowls in the mini kitchen for those on break and had scooped them both out some ice cream.

Chocolate flavoured, of course.

She'd grown fond of the cold delight since her outing with half the Wayne family.

"Englizh Azzignment iz due tomorrov," Aleksandr announced to the room at large. "Ve zhoebox iz finizhed."

"The essay ain't," Rachel huffed. She would've gotten it done on Sunday but Batgirl had ended up pulling another all-nighter (her third in one week). She blamed the way the new suit flexed with her and gave her a new burst of energy that had her stalking her territories until the dawn of the sun, testing out her new toys with a cheerful voice buzzing in her ear. "Only got three damn pages. Mundesley wants five."

"Vat exactly vaz ve ezzay on?" Aleksandr toddled over to her side where she'd set up her legs at the main console. The control room was truly extraordinary with all four of the walls lined with lights that would've otherwise been blinking and on had the place been in use. Multiple computer stations were sprinkled over the floor with desks at the sides with roller chairs and an assortment of buttons and switches plastered over _every_ surface.

It was comparable to a power station's control centre, really.

"Y'know, how the characters grew and all that stuff over the time of the novel," Rachel replied. "Like how Jack became more animalistic after painting the mask and how after the boys came back from their trip up the mountain and apparently seeing the 'beast' Simon's mental state slowly began to deteriorate. Stuff like that, yeah?"

"And you have written that?" Alek questioned.

Rachel scrunched her nose up. "Most of it, I guess. It's still only three pages long and it's due in first period tomorrow."

"Piggy alzo had zome character development," Alek said. "Remember how he constantly quoted his auntie in the start, going off the law's logic and by the end he was in denial and was willing to pretend nothing had happened?"

Rachel leaned back in her seat. "I guess I could make an extended PETAL out of that. Yeah, cheers."

Alek smiled and turned around to grab another beer. "No problem."

 

 

They got an A* for the English Assignment. Mrs Mundesley claimed she loved the 'expressive wording of the essay' and adored the figurines, 'even if Piggy was a cocktail stick with a paper drawn pair of glasses stuck to the face'.

Whatever. Rachel counted it as a win as her and Aleksandr high-fived, grinning from ear to ear.

 

 

"Hey, Tim!" Rachel called, catching up with Tim for the first time since Thursday last week.

Tim turned around and smiled at her, continuing walking as she pulled up alongside him. They were walking over to History which had been relocated to the recently built new wing.

"Rachel," the boy greeted. "Congrats on that A* in English. It looked great."

"Thanks!" She grinned, "Alek did the shoebox, who'd you end up working with?"

Tim made a well-natured face of horror. "Cheryl."

"No way," Rachel gasped. Cheryl was widely known by everyone as the girl who didn't care. She didn't do class work, course work or homework. Rachel kinda felt guilty for not working with him now. "Did she chip in all right?"

"Yeah," Tim shrugged. "Kinda had to ask her a couple times but she got the shoebox done and it was decent."

Rachel decided to not remark on the shoebox that had been labelled 'Cheryl's'; the one that had looked like hurricane sandy had swept through it overnight. It was a miracle the figures were even standing as they were, being oddly 2D.

"Nice." She hummed and cast her eyes about the hallway. A bright poster caught her eye. "Oh! Are you gonna do the musical?"

Tim blinked, "Dunno. Are you?"

Rachel paused, "Well, I mean it's the 'Sound of Music'. It can't be _that_ hard. I might if I have the time to."

Tim shrugged as they fluttered into Mr. Graham's History room. "I'll think about it."

"Great!"


	11. The Joke's Run Dry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Guess who.
> 
> The goddamn Clown Prince of Crime, that's who.

 

 

She's auditioning for the school play when it happens.

It's calm one moment, students milling around with props galore bunched in their hands, but a bang goes off, the lights flicker and the steady hum of happy chatter quickly dims then vanishes. Rachel's making small talk that gets forgotten about as the girl she's chatting to spooks and runs off to her boyfriend.

"Weird," she can hear Stephanie Wayne grunt from where the doors have slammed and locked shut automatically with the onlining of the school's security system. "The doors don't usually lock without a damn good reason."

Isn't this a good enough reason? She wonders because it's not everyday their school has a blackout with no prior warnings.

The silence notches up a few levels. Rachel turns, script left on the floor, and strides over to the entirety of the Wayne family (or all of them that attend this school, at the very least).

Cassandra notices her before she stops, her brow wrinkling before smoothing out. She offers a small smile in place of the grin Stephanie gives out freely.

"Hey, chick," the Spoiler of Night says. She never ceases to concern Rachel with how friendly she seems. "You good?"

Rachel brings up her laugh, eyes purposely worried as she shrugs. "Guess so. I was gonna audition but it seems Mrs. Murtagh isn't in the mood."

Indeed, their school-wide only Drama teacher seemed annoyed as she shouted at one of the common troublemakers. Rachel distinctly heard the words "chewing gum" "my desk" and "detention or after school". She certainly looked _happy._

Jason snorted crudely, hands shoved in his pockets. It was a position she'd seen him in many a time, but with her nerves being suddenly frayed by this blackout it brought flash-images of an age old memory to the front of her mind.

 

"You're dead, whore," Thomas smirked evily, his eyes shining with mirth. His hands were shoved into his jean pockets, buried up to the knuckle. "Dad'll come home and when I say you broke the vase, he'll believe me."

And Jonathan had. He'd believed every twisted and turned word that came out of his true blood son's mouth that night. Believed him over her because she was 'nothing more than a cock-sucking gyspie'. Jonathan had actually sneered at her, shouting something along the lines of, "You're nothing more than a fucking charity case. A bitch we took in for publicity, so why don't you shut the fuck up!" when she'd tried to defend herself.

She'd been locked in her room for two days without food, beaten until her cheeks bled from her biting them to keep down the screams ("Can't have the neighbors worrying, can we?"). The black eye had stayed for days longer.

 

"—Croydon?" Mrs Murtagh was calling, voice raised to a strict tenor. "I want you on stage now. We're proceeding with auditions."

Rachel came back to the present with a blink. She clenched her fists, putting on a smile that she'd long forgotten how to enjoy.

"Nothing stops this school," someone murmured jokingly as Rachel waved to the Waynes and walked past them. It was obviously not true, because floods stopped the school, but it still put a bad feeling in her gut.

"Go over line 19," Murtagh ordered, leaning back on her high-backed stool. Really, the dress she wore shouldn't have been allowed for teachers because it was giving Rachel a hell of a distraction. When she didn't flick to the page fast enough Mrs Murtagh ground out a sharp, "Now."

Rachel glanced down at the line, taking in the act of Sister Theresa before smiling. "She's a wonderful girl," she let the overjoyed smile drop to a frustrated grimace, tone dropping as well. "Some of the time."

"Jump to page 9, line eight." Mrs Murtagh calls out, bored eyes boaring into her.

It's Maria this time; Rachel jumps into it in sugar-coated refusal. "Oh, no, sir. I'm sorry, sir! I could never answer to a whistle. Whistles are for animals, not for children. And definitely not for me."

Rachel's world slows as the doors shudder.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

They clanged open, banging against the walls. A handful of men stockpiled in, furious snarls hidden by full faces of face paint and clown masks. Rachel's heart jumped in her throat, script fluttering to the ground.

The actual breathing, living, _real_ Joker strode in after them, smiling as he giggled.

"Oh, but aren't whistles just lovely?" The lunatic grinned, his flapping, stapled on face drooping over his teeth horribly.

And then, as if to spite some unknown presence; the Joker let out a long shrill whistle.

All hell broke loose.

His goons surged forward, barrelling down students and auditorium chairs alike in their haste. Two particularly large men surrounded Mrs Murtagh, one grabbing her arms while the other broke her neck with a heavy swing of his bat.

Rachel has never felt more faint than in that moment, watching her teacher's blood weep over her dress, the floor, the men's hands. She wondered if this is what it's like to watch Batgirl kill, before she's diving off centerstage, falling back into the sliding production curtains that are heavy with weights at the ends. Becoming engulfed in the backstage's darkness.

All the other kids are screaming, wailing, running for cover behind seats or whatever other surface that seems remotely hard. But the Waynes stand there, stunned and petrified by the main aisle as the goons surround them and at a nod from Joker, tie them up in the front row. She would've helped them, but she was Croydon right now and Rachel's own single-minded self-preservation instincts are kicking into overdrive and she can't think straight, nevermind actually _worry_ about them without fainting.

She hopes Tim's okay. Alek is fine, at home, snuggled up in his favourite blue blanket. Enjoying the freedom his father allows him for being ill.

(Rachel kinda wished Amanda would let her stay home when she was sick, but she'd allowed that once, when she was 9 and Rachel had very nearly blacked out as she was forced to clean the house with a fever of 102.5 F.)

"It'll be okay," she hears a girl whispering as someone whimpers. A couple men are clamouring up the stage's rickety steps that are barely fit for 16 year olds, nevermind fully grown men.

The first thought that gets past Rachel's fight or flight emotions is, _noise._ They'll get us caught, those kids in the corner.

The second: _run._

The two instincts wage war upon themselves, fighting and clawing and begging Rachel to decide, to pick one, to  _do it now._ So she makes up her mind. The back of the stage is dark normally but it's even darker with no light and the curtains drawn. This darkness is the type that your fears lurk in, the unseen one, the one that blinds those with pure hearts, horrifying and humiliating them. And it won't last for much longer.

At least, not with the Joker's goons pulling at the levers to move the heavy curtains, ready to drag any coward kids out there to get shot down.

Head thumping in time with her erratic pulse, Rachel slips closer to the whimpers. Now that she's closer to the people making the noise she can make out a bright shock of red hair, comforting a swell of black.

The girl is one she recognises; one of the student's council, a year below her. Carrie Kelly. A classic part goth, part emo, straight A student that was the star child any family wanted. (Or maybe not, but then, Rachel had a hard time judging what people wanted from her in that category.)

The boy she was comforting was a first year, judging from the tenor of his voice. That, or he hadn't hit puberty yet. (Both were wholly possible.) If Rachel was correct, going from the badges littering his long coat, and the bright yellow monkey plaster over his eyebrow, the boy is one Colin Wilkes. Library monitor and an extra stage hand who had a penchant for plasters.

It made sense why they were back here.

"We need to get out of here," she hisses to them. Carrie jolts up, blue eyes wide as she holds Colin that bit tighter. Colin doesn't even spare her a glance, choking on his cries. "I'm a friendly, the name's Rachel. You guys know of a way out?"

"Back entrance is padlocked shut," Carrie informs her, tone clipped with fear as lumbering boots get closer. "It's just behind us but with no key we can't do much."

"Got a bobby pin on you?" She asks.

Carrie gives her an unimpressed eyebrow raise. "Of course, how could I have forgotten about that?" She's being sarcastic, Rachel can tell despite it not being as obvious as Oracle's whenever Batgirl listens in on the Clan's comm frequency. "No, I don't and I'm not about to—"

She cuts off as Rachel slaps a hand over her mouth. Carrie glares up at her, looking ready to bite her hand off. Thankfully, she doesn't. Or, not immediately.

"Where could they'a gone, Gabe?" A man, possibly late fourties, grunts. He's ex-military, maybe a hire out mercenary, if the way he treads means anything. He knows his stuff, Rachel can hear him beating the walled nooks with something metal —likely a crowbar— as he and his friend progressed through the dark.

They're goners here. Sitting ducks.

Carrie's face softens then hardens as the crowbar pokes its head out of the curtain a few feet over from them.

Rachel slips a hand over Colin's mouth too, deciding to tilt his head up to meet his eyes. They're a nice hazel, deep with emotion and teary with fear. Somewhere, deep down, Rachel hopes her eyes are transferring all the hope and reassurance she wants to give.

Thing is, she doesn't feel half as confident right now as she usually would doing this sort of thing. Maybe because then, she's always in a largely bulletproof suit, batarangs in her pockets.

This is gonna make her hella paranoid.

"—what a shame!" The Joker's carrying on his own speech outside the boundaries of the curtains. It seems oddly aimed at the Wayne kids. A shot of panic surged through her at the thought that a maniac and psyco like him knew who they were.

(She didn't feel jealous at all.)

"Hey, Hugh," a rough voice chirped and the dread that filled her told her enough for her to just know.

_This is it._

_It's only Monday,_ another voice tells her. _Meant to have another day. Just one._

She pushed Colin and Carrie back just as a hand reached out and grabbed her blazer. It tugged and she tumbled back, out of the curtain that gives her a slow-motion view of Colin and Carrie hunkering down, further into the line between floor and wall, as if they could sink into invisibility.

"Lookit, look wha' we got here, boss!" One of the men —larger of the two, stronger, taller, the smelliest— chuckles. When she's pulled by the scruff of her white blouse to the forefront of the stage and is dangled there, in front of the Waynes and the Joker, she can barely breathe past the fear.

_Don't blow your cover,_ she chants like a mantra. _Batman will show up. Don't do anything stupid._

"Don't bring anyone else into this," Stephanie hissed low enough for only her family and them to hear. It seemed even the capes made it into public spaces, on occasion. "Don't be petty."

"Petty?" The Joker cackled like he'd watched some funny cartoon drunk while chugging laughing gas. The sound resulted in something hollow, tuned out. Ridden with shadows never meant for the light. Rachel squashed down the urge to cry. "Why it's not petty, not when you want a bit of fun! What 'bout yous, is it boys?"

The man holding her, laughed, his shoulders shaking with the rumble. It startled her, jolting her body. It jarred her bad leg, resulting in a wince that drew the Joker's attention even past his own sick intentions.

"Aww," he cooed, face ripping and tearing along the horrific stitch lines of his _sewn on face_ as he peered up at her. "Is the little girl scared, or hurt? Tell me, do _you_ like to fly?"

Rachel's heart caught in her throat for the second time. _Mami,_ she begged. _Give me strength._

Joker beamed up at her like a psychopathic four year old, as if there was nothing wrong with this twisted, demented game he was playing. Then, "Drop her."

And the man holding her, swinging her, choking her, did.

He let go and Rachel seen her mami and tati, and uncle and auntie and cousins falling _fallingfallingfalling._

She screamed.

It shouldn't have hurt, a fall like that, because she was Batgirl and she'd fallen from higher but right now she was Rachel —Grayson— Croydon. Rachel was weak. Batgirl was not.

She was not Batgirl at this moment in time, held hostage before the Joker. It all hurt: the impact, the scared feeling in her gut, the fact that she was _falling._

Rachel gasped for air. Feeling more than hearing the crunch as she hit the boards, seven foot away from the stage podium. Her world bounced as her head hit home.

 


	12. No Blessed Birds 'Round Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's over. Or is it? Hahaha.

 

Never before had Steph ever heard such an anguished, terrified scream rip out of a girl's throat like the one that just tore free of Rachel's. It reminded her chillingly of how she'd screamed her throat raw at seeing Cluemaster shoot her mom. The girl hit her head off the ground and fell unmoving. Stephanie didn't dare doubt that she would've lay there, in peace, had Joker not tugged at her hair, using her as an example, anyway. The Clown was monologuing. Not that _that_ was unusual. 

Stephanie felt sick to her stomach, watching Rachel blink in confusion, head tilted down as if she was ill. The girl made no move to do something, anything, despite how Steph  _knew_ those muscles couldn't have been made while doing nothing. Not that she was calling Rachel weak for doing nothing, she was far too hot for that, but Stephanie didn't understand where the girl's confidence had fled to.

Well, she sort of did. The Joker drained it, long and hard. Rachel was no wimp and Steph didn't want the cutie dead so she kept her mouth shut.

"Batsy's taking a little too long," Joker mused, eyes wide and grin wider. "Maybe we should give him a li'l bit of a prompty-wompty. Ha ha, yes?"

One of the thugs —the one that had dropped Rachel— crouched down and slid a switchblade into the clown's hand. His grin was horrid. "Here ya go, Jokes."

Joker grinned, moved his grip down to a struggling Rachel's neck and plunged the blade into her left bicep. Tim was shaking beside Stephanie as Rachel choked, eyes bulging as her shirt arm flushed a goopy red.

"Wh—?" Her eyes sparkled with tears as they fluttered and it broke Stephanie's heart to see her confusion so clearly. It was almost glowing. The Clown Prince of Crime just laughed loudly and threw her forward, having her land sharply on her arms. Cassandra was cutting at the ropes around her hands, but it was taking too long.

"What do you want?" Stephanie spoke up. Joker danced forward, kicking a curled up Rachel in the side as he passed.

Not a minute later the blood had soaked entirely through her white shirt. It was so obvious, especially with no blazer on to hide it. Stephanie personally knew what a pain it was to have the shirt grab onto you when bloodied. She wasn't the best at wrapping bandages and her back was _hard_ to reach, damn it. 

Tim, who was beside her, was practically vibrating, panic radiating off of him. He was scared, just like they all were because Rachel was a good kid, she didn't deserve this _._ She didn't deserve a horrible, mutilated death at the hands of the  _Joker._ Because he _was_  going to kill her. It was in how he grinned, how the air tensed as his muscles jumped and spasmed. Stephanie would be lying if her own panic wasn't making Tim's that much worse.

Rachel couldn't die.

"The Batman," Joker announced. "I want to see my good friend, Batsy!"

Jason had fallen silent, staring at the blood that pooled around Tim's... friend, eyes faraway and distant. Cass had closed her eyes, tugging faster at the bonds that kept them tied to the auditoriums front-row seats. The movement was near unnoticable, only to be seen by a trained eye.

It was torture. Watching as Joker decided on what to do with Rachel, debating on handing her off to his men, his dogs or keeping her for some 'games'. Stephanie knew well enough, by now, that whatever games Joker meant was really, in actuality, his codeword for _torture time_. He got a kick out of torture before death, somehow. 

Back when he'd caught her during her brief stint as Robin, it had still been 'Torture Time'. He'd still used the laughing gas that haunted all but the younger one's nights. Back then, he'd still had a face. Not a stapled on, torn up, monstrosity of his old one.

She didn't even know what had been wrong with his old one.

It wasn't as scary. Maybe he took offense at that?

"What a shame the party will have to be cut short—" Joker was saying as an unstable part of the roof caved in and Batman landed in front of him, grapple disappearing with a _ziing._ Joker's grin grew ten times bigger, his jaw pulling the tacked on skin back so hard the skin ripped. "Batsy!"

He didn't even seem fazed at the fact the fucking roof had _fallen_ in. The rubble —stone the size of small cars, iron bar as long and tall as Damian— clattered around them, lining the front carpet that acted as a moat between the audience and the stage.

Batman took one look at them and Rachel, who was bleeding out at an alarming rate despite her hands clutched over the wound and the blade still in her, and narrowed his eyes. Joker's goons rallied round, all slapping their bats or crowbars against greasy palms as they jeered silently, sneers firmly plastered on their faces.

"Look what I found, B-man!" Joker continued, gun drawn to Rachel's down-tipped head. Her hair swam about her, coveribg her face and making it hard to see how she was reacting to this. Although the girl had stopped shaking and from what Steph could tell, stopped breathing as well. She was going into shock. "A little bird by the name of 'Timmy's friend'!"

Tim's sharp inhale of breath said the same thing Steph wondered; how did he know _that?_

"Joker," Batman grunted, timbre thick and unyielding. "Release the children and put down the gun."

"Well," Joker tapped his chin in thought, lowering his gun. Rachel made a soft wheezing noise and he kicked her, forcing her to curl into herself as much as possible without agitating the knife still lodged in her arm. The position had to be hurting like hell as it was. "How 'bout we let the school kiddies go, and we have our fun, yes? Yes!"

One of the goons guarding the doors grunted something and the ones hiding in the seats all made a run for it. Stephanie's eyebrows scrunched up, something didn't feel right—

"Or not." Joker said, his only warning. "Shoot 'em!"

They fell like flies, the few that weren't shot to the ground being picked off by the ones near the door. The room echoed in horrified silence as the stench of gunpowder ran high. The thud of bodies dropping rang in her ears.

Someone hidden under a chair, having made a panicked duck for it, started wailing. Joker made an annoyed face, a sharp wave, and another gunshot echoed. The kid fell silent.

"Joker," Batman growled.

"Batsy," Joker cackled.

The smoke pellet was out before Steph could comprehend what was happening. Batman and Joker were nothing more than shadows, the goons going down one by one by strategically thrown batarangs. Tim was stuck between tugging at his rope or staring unblinking out at the smoke.

"C'mon, Batsy! Save those kiddies out there!" Joker cackled, before he grunted. He stumbled out of the cloud, blood gushing down his lips from a crooked nose. Stephanie resisted the urge to cheer or clap and bring unwanted attention to them. (Not that she really could clap bound. She'd yet to master the art of finger flapping when her palm was unavailable but she could damn well _try.)_ Joker growled, sinister and pure evil. It made Stephanie's spine jolt with shivers. "Wouldn't want to have to send out a ransom to Mr. Wayne for four of his young'uns."

"Good thing you won't be needing to," Batman sprung from the smoke like hell set loose, cape flashing up around his elbows as he lunged for the deranged madman. They wrestled, Joker gaining the hand for a bit with a lucky backhand before B pulled him up bodily and slammed him into a jagged debris rock.

Batman stood up, crouched low and defensive as three goons ran up, snarls firm. The bulky one that had dropped Rachel from the stage and handed over the knife that was still buried in her flesh grabbed Joker by the shoulders, hauling the Clown to his feet.

"Well, Batsy," Joker started, shaking his head before a grin spread wild like an infection. "As much as I've enjoyed this, I've gotta say: Bon Voyage!"

The stage blew up just as Stephanie cut herself free. Batman yelled, running for a limp, unmoving Rachel to drag her away from the blast radius as Joker and his men sprinted away. Steph refused to acknowledge the fear that welled up inside her for the kid's wellbeing, instead focussing on cutting short the time it was taking Tim to cut himself out of his bit of rope. Cass was already out, untieing Jason as she blinked.

"Get out the front," B said, striding over to them with a shallow breathing Rachel clutched bridal. She was awfully pale. "Gordon is out there with his men, play civilians. I'll drop her off with an ambulance crew."

"Okay," Steph said, already tugging Tim away. A couple kids —a short kid and some girl who looked a bit like one of the prefects— ventured out from the rubble of the stage, frantic as they made for the door. "Okay, c'mon, Tim. The Batman has spoken, c'mon."

Stephanie made sure to not miss the fond smirk B shot her, before shooting his grapple.

 

 

Her head hurt. There was noise, people clamouring round, blurs passing over her, in front of her eyes. A flush of yellow against white, the peach colour skin was, a light in her eyes, voices. Loud, loud voices, not at all familiar.

"Yep, definitely a Grade Two Concussion, I've got the stab wound stitched and bandaged already but you'll need to clean it at regular intervals. Luckily she didn't need a transfusion, but she'll still be lightheaded." Someone was speaking. They were too close, too loud. It hurt her head, felt like strawberries getting squished down for kool-aid. Was that how they made kool-aid?

Rachel didn't know. Miranda didn't buy it much. Thomas detested it. He said it tasted like shit but Rachel liked it. It was nice, flowed on her tongue where milk caught and seemingly pulled until her stomach hurt and her eyes watered.

She breathed. She wanted kool-aid. The apple was nice. Rachel liked its colour but the red one— the red was better. Red was _way_ better. Red was always better, there was a reason why she'd picked it. 

"Of course," a voice grunted, rough and low. Rachel recognised it but she was floating with the kool-aid and marshmallows and her head hurt too much to turn itself to look at the man. Her eyes were too blurry.

"Oh, darlin', you're awake. How're you feeling?" The light was moving, the peach was closer, in her face. Rachel couldn't get her eyes to focus. What had happened her contacts?

"I can' see," she slurred, voice sounding thick to her own ears. Her contacts had cost more than she was worth, if she lost them— her heart jumped. If Rachel lost her contacts of all things to—

"I got your contacts out, sweetheart." The person— a woman? They sounded feminine —was probably a paramedic. Yeah, that was right. _Joker_ had happened.

She'd been stabbed.

She'd been _stabbed._

Rachel coughed into a breathing mask thingy that she hadn't realised was there, eyes shooting open as she struggled. The paramedic was murmuring things to her, a caring lilt to their tone. She still couldn't see, why couldn't she see?

A large, calloused hand touched her arm. It was one place where nothing hurt but her breath still jumped. She was scared, she couldn't see, couldn't get enough air in.

"Breathe, it's okay," Batman. It was Batman. "You're breathing, you have enough air. We're getting your contacts cleaned here, just breathe. We can't put them in if you're panicking, Rachel."

No. He was too talkative for the Bat. Too soft voiced, too kind as his hand rubbed circles in her arms. Too comforting, like he had done this before—

"Didn't intend to meet you like this, Mr. Wayne." She gasped out, taking deep breaths and regaining control of her breathing. Her throat had closed up but that didn't matter, oxygen, air, whatever people called it these days, she was getting it. She was getting it.

A soft, soft chuckle. His fingers squeezed her arm good naturedly. "Just Bruce, please, Miss Croydon."

There's enough air to share. Don't gobble it all up, Grayson.

"Rachel," she said, so many memories flooding her all at once it hurt. "My name is Rachel."

Maybe she said it too fiercely because Bruce fell silent. New hands eased her up and the paramedic was whispering in her ears again, the oxygen mask peeled off her clammy skin.

"Right, I've got your contacts here, they're clean. You want some glasses or—?" It was odd. They sounded female but had the hands of a man.

Rachel didn't have any glasses on her. She hadn't ever had them.

For a long time she'd thought it was normal to need to squint to see until she'd accidentally upped the lens' concentration on her contacts for Batgirl and she'd suddenly been able to _see._ She'd never known a city could be so beautiful all by its lonesome. 

"I don't have any glasses on me," she stuttered.

"Here," Bruce spoke and a small cool cylindrical box was placed in her shaking hands, folded on her lap. "They're my reading glasses but they'll be comfier than contacts. I apologise, the prescription might be a tad high for you."

The paramedic pushed them onto her face, sliding the hooks over and behind her ears and Rachel—

Rachel could see.

A pink haired masculine-feminine looking person smiled at them, hands large like a man's as they twisted them in front of them,  smile wide and lips plush like a female's. They wore the usual trousered paramedic gear, with no visible breasts. Rachel felt embarrassed, not knowing what gender they were or which one they confirmed to. Pronouns would've at least made her feel more comfortable, no matter what they were.

Bruce was sat to her left, on a fold-out wall-attatched bench. His brow was creased and his black hair glimmered in the lights of the ambulance. Miranda was going to kill her.

She wondered why Bruce fucking Wayne was here before realising that at some point Batman had shown up, the Waynes had been tied up and shit had happened. _Explains that,_ she thought.

Her arms hurt, mainly her top left bicep. The pain just seemed to radiate down into her elbow, making it hard to move her arm at all. 

_That's where you got stabbed,_ her conscience chastised.  _Upper left arm._

"They're okay," she said, adjusting the glasses on her nose. Their legs were too big but she had been living off what she could get for a while now. "Thanks."

"No problem, kid." Bruce offered a fake smile that wasn't so fake to everyone but her.

She was the master of fake smiles. No one fooled her. She was—

She resisted the urge to laugh. She was _da boss._

"I've got you on some pretty good pain meds, there, kid. You got someone you can spend the night with, for supervision?"

"Sure," she said, mind wandering to red kool-aid again as she imagined the look on Jonathan's face when she said she'd been blown up. He'd either be smug about her injuries, saying she deserved them, or would be disappointed she hadn't died.

Lose-lose, really.

And Alek was sick, so there was no way she was going anywhere near him with a ten foot pole after being _stabbed._ He was irritating on a good day too, no point in provoking the worry-bear.

"I thought the Croydons were away?" Bruce asked and Rachel blinked, head jolting up. "On vacation?"

She hadn't realised. Rachel had fallen into a habit of waking up and stumbling down the stairs with her headphones on recently, to drown out the new curses thrown at her. She only looked forwards too, usually on a conquest for coffee. What was the point in looking around anyway; the world moved forwards, not backwards. Miranda and Jonathan _had_ been talking about going to Greece for Summer holidays, she just hadn't known they were gone yet. It was only Easter, too.

"Oh," was all she could say.

Something fluttered over Wayne's face, indiscernible, but it was gone before Rachel's messed up head could latch on and question it. "Why don't you stay over at the Manor?" He queried. "We have plenty of guest bedrooms and you certainly wouldn't be alone. I don't think the Academy will be open for the last few days before Easter, I heard the hall roof collapsed in."

"Sounds good," said the paramedic, nodding as they peeled their gloves off with a snap. "Now, I'm sorry to do this but—"

"Don't worry," Bruce waved them off, already pulling Rachel to her feet. When her legs didn't stick he pulled her up to lay her head on his shoulder. He had nice shoulders; broad and muscular. She didn't really mind him carrying her either, it reminded her of _tatic_ carrying her around the Big Top's rigging. Things had been simple back then, with her real family, no Batgirl, no proper worries, just the rush of air and a trapeze. "We'll look after her. Thank you."

"Of course, Mr. Wayne!" The paramedic shouted, just a tad too loud for Rachel. She ended up wincing, shivering as Wayne soothed her.

"It'll be okay, Rachel." He said, a hand rubbing at her back. His stride jolted every second step, possibly tellings of an old injury and it made her irritated, mind swirling around unicorns and batarangs as her body ached. Obviously those pain meds weren't the best. "You can stay over with us for a few days, if you want. I'm sure Alfred would be more than happy to feed another mouth."

"Thanks," she slurred, mind heavy, limbs even more so.

"Don't worry about it," Bruce said. "Don't fall asleep just yet, kid. Have to keep you up for a couple more hours."

"I know," she did. She really did. Somewhere, though, deep down, she didn't really care. Her eyes drooped, core relaxing as her body tried to power down. She needed sleep, when had Rachel gotten it last, when was the last time Batgirl hadn't pulled an all-nighter? A week, maybe more?

Her shoulder was jostled, making her hiss. Bruce patted her head apologetically and told her again she had to stay awake. Her eyes stay open.

 


	13. We are the hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stephanie tries her best, she really does.

 

 

_Imagine we are higher than the sparrows_

_Casually we're breathing with the pharaohs_

_Tragically we fall just like the arrows_

Her phone felt like it was vibrating as it sat in her back pocket, playing EXGF's We Are The Hearts. Stephanie murmured along with the song, folding her newly washed towels as she nodded her head to the beat.

_"You will hear our voices echo,"_ she sung, patting her pocket to assure herself that her phone wouldn't fall out at movement before grabbing her stack of three towels and skipping over to her en-suite. The glossy cupboard door swung open easily and she plopped the towels down, idly straightening up the plastic tupperware boxes she kept in there for her underwear.

_We're dancing through the smoke_

A _nd we don't mind the flames_

"And we don't mind the flames," Steph hummed even as the song moved on.

_Now we become the ghost_

_That you know by name_

_(You know by name, you know by name)_

_High, high, high, high_

She walked back into her room, dropping down on her purple comforter, weary of squishing her phone. It wasn't like she had much to do and she was mainly stuck upstairs unless she wanted to go downstairs to help Alfred with his sudden need for a spring clean. He was going through the Den right now, hoovering, dusting and stripping things of their cases to wash. Steph had no inane need to touch those cushions or beanbags, only god knew what touched them. Stephanie liked her room better, dusty as it was.

Aside from the fact that they were off from school early, Tim had already ran off with Duke to work on something in the Cave, Jason had harrangled Bruce into taking him to work again and Cass had vanished on her, running off somewhere.

Steph wasn't sure where she'd went off to which was odd, considering how they both told each other everything. Cass would probably tell her later.

_We are the hearts_

_And the future runs through our bones_

Right now, she was sadly bored. A Stephanie that had nothing to do was a bored Stephanie. A bored Stephanie thought up the best pranks.

"Haven't had a prank war in a while," she said, comforted by the fact her plans would remain unheard with her music blaring. Grinning she rolled over, stretching out on her stomach to reach under her pillow and pull out her prank diary. It was a rough looking leather backed journal that Bruce had given her upon her adoption and although she'd frowned at it and said she didn't need it Steph had kept it.

What could she say — it made for a good brainstorming place. The one place where everything she wrote stayed private.

Sometimes she thought about how it was a shame she only used it to plan pranks and schemes but she'd dedicated it to that and that alone. She couldn't break the poor books trust like that. She wasn't cruel.

Into The Labyrinth remix started playing and Steph scowled. Reaching back, she pulled her phone out of her back pocket to change the song. When presented with the option of forwarding or backtracking, she backtracked. We Are The Hearts came on again and she dropped her phone beside her on the sheets.

_You know, you know why_

_Now you know we don't go_

_Come_

_You know, you know why_

_Now you know we don't go_

Stephanie flipped through her diary, stopping at a blank page. There were no lines, which she appreciated. It made it easier for mind maps.

**Easter 2019 Pranks** was what she wrote in the very middle with her black pen. She pulled out a pencil case from the gap between her bedside table and her bed frame and rifled through it. Her batproof invisible marker —which she'd had Duke make for her— was then used excessively to note down everything. And when she says everything, Steph means _everything._

**Dumping glitter on Damian, using Titus as a distraction** was said, with **Give Jason the wrong sandwich** and **Hide Bruce's coffee mug, include Ace** also making the cut.

Simple ideas but still ones that hadn't yet been done, or repetitive ones that still had potential if swapped up a bit. She was in the middle of writing **Swap Duke's cup-a-soups with porridge** when a thump caught her attention.

Head snapping up Stephanie debated pausing her music, listening attentively. Dull, muted words made their way to her ears as Steph's brow scrunched together. She didn't understand that language and although she didn't know as many languages as Damian or Babara, Stephanie reckoned she knew a good amount. It wasn't often she heard something she didn't know.

It sounded rough, from what she could tell. Pausing her music, Steph got up and made her way over to her slightly ajar door before pulling it open. She'd been kicked out of the bedrooms on the balcony by Barbara and Jason, leaving her to reside in one of the corridor aligned ones which she was still sore about. It also meant there were rooms in front of her. The door opposite her room was a guest bedroom, owned by no one but it was where Bruce had put Rachel after she'd passed out after the mandatory 24 hours of Concussion Worried Consciousness. (CWC for short.)

It was also the room where the muffled words were coming from.

Deciding to stick a foot in the proverbial fire, Steph stepped forward. She was cautious of the creaky floorboard —the very one that no one fixed because of their paranoia, 'when you know the creaks of your domain you have the upper hand,' Damian would always say— and avoided barging in like a burglar. Instead, Steph practiced her manners and knocked on the door.

The voice immediately cut off. Steph stood in silence, feeling awkward as nothing happened.

"Rachel?" She tried. "I heard you were up, you good?"

Great. Now she sounded like some sort of stalker. Since when had she ever thought _"I heard you were up,"_ was a good sentence starter?

The door opened a few moments later, after the handle was juggled for what felt like forever. Rachel, dressed in a billowing blue shirt, blinked at her.

Stephanie smiled at her kindly as Rachel stood in silence. The blue shirt looked good on her, it brought out her eyes and the billowy-ness of it was pretty. Steph felt like she recognised it from somewhere. Was it one of Damian's? Rachel didn't have any clothes that were hers and Alfred had mentioned temporary sharing until he got out shopping. It was huge and Steph felt like it would be something Damian would own. She couldn't see Alfred gender sharing their clothes though...

"Nice shirt," she said to fill the ringing in her ears. "It looks good on you."

Rachel blushed, gripping onto the sewn hems with a death grip as she smiled. She looked cute when she was flustered. "Thanks," she said, voice a little rough from sleep. Her blush darkened as she cleared her throat. "Uh— did I annoy you?"

"Annoy me?" Stephanie cocked her head to the side, laughing lightly. "Of course not! I heard some noise and got worried. Are you okay?"

"Oh." Rachel said and suddenly Steph realised who owned the shirt.

She did. And it certainly was not meant to hang on someone's body like that. It hugged Stephanie, pulling out her frame and the curve of her breasts. Was Rachel really so skinny that it looked like she'd ben swallowed by an ocean?

Something churned in her gut. Rachel didn't look malnourished, but she looked tired and pale. Hadn't she just slept for ten plus hours? People didn't tend to look like they'd woken up from hell afterwards, maybe she'd had a nightmare? Wouldn't she be sweating though, Steph couldn't tell as Rachel shrugged innocently.

Wouldn't she be jumpy? Dazed possibly? Stephanie wasn't sure, her nightmares were always quick and to the point. She usually woke up crying or sweating a river, or both.

"No problems," the younger girl announced. Her stiff smile turned shy. "Just nearly fell off the bed, hit the, uh— the dresser?"

Stephanie peered into her room as Rachel toddled backwards, clutching to the door to show her. Her bedside table was a few inches off place, right up against the wall, and her comforter was rumpled but aside from that the room was dark, the long curtains drawn. Nothing else was out of place.

_The thump must of been the table hitting the wall,_ she mused.

"The bedside table," Steph said to the fidgeting girl who didn't seem to have a good grip on English yet. "Don't worry, it's sturdy enough. Damian fell on his once and it stayed in one piece."

"Damian?" Rachel asked. Steph looked at her, seeing the nervous posture and the messy hair, and realised Rachel hadn't met everyone yet.

"Our older brother. He's nineteen." She answered. "I would introduce you to him but he's probably out with his cow—"

"His cow?" Rachel gasped quietly. She looked a mix between shocked and confused. Girl probably thought she was referring to a woman.

"Yeah. He owns an actual cow. Named it Batcow 'cuz Batman saved it and Damian seen him." Steph chuckled, not minding the interruption at all.

"Oh." Rachel said. Steph figured it was the only thing she could say, being surrounded by the hulking gothic walls of Wayne Manor. "Sorry for interrupting you."

"Don't worry about it, Rachel." Stephanie said, noting how the girl seemed to refocus on reality when her name was said. English must not have been her first language. "How 'bout you get changed and I'll give you a magnificent tour of the Manor?"

It would give her an excuse to walk around too, without being dragged away by Alfred to do chores.

Rachel just gave her a frantic deer-in-the-headlights look. "I don't know if I have any other clothes. I just put this on because it was on the chair."

"Don't worry," Stephanie recovered quickly. She beckoned Rachel into her own room. "C'mon, I have loads of clothes. Something should fit you."

 

 

Turns out, nothing Stephanie owned at a size 8 (U.S.) fitted Rachel. Luckily, Cass was a size 6 and after sprinting to her room for some stuff they finally found something that didn't hang so badly on the soon-to-be 5th year.

The pair of shorts that were too small for Cass by a couple sizes fitted Rachel with a belt —Steph thanked whoever was listening that the shorts _had_ belt loops and that she had a belt that wrapped that tight— and the socks seemed alright. Rachel looked quite attached to Stephanie's blue dress shirt and Steph didn't have the heart to steal it from her so she let her keep it on after tucking it into the shorts. The girl was also quite admant on going commando, which Stephanie couldn't argue with because if her shorts didn't fit the girl then how would her underwear? Rachel was naturally firm enough in the upper section that she proved well enough how some women did not need bras.

"Are you sure this is okay?" Rachel asked as she fiddled with the denim shorts' only button. One of her red socked feet tapped on the floorboards in a nervous tick Steph was sure Rachel didn't know she had.

It struck Steph how the girl seemed so reluctant to accept things, like she was waiting for the toll to be placed in her hands, a timer strapped to her neck with it. Amanda had money, she'd married Jonathan Croydon who had money —nothing compared to Bruce but still money— surely they used some of it to treat their daughter.

_Adopted daughter,_ she reminded herself. But still. Why adopt a child unless you were going to care for them like you would one of your own blood?

So why did Rachel seem so reluctant to accept the good deeds of another.

Stephanie had seen this behaviour in others before — herself included, a long time ago. This was the behaviour of a kid walking on eggshells to not get the boot. This was the nervousness of a child who didn't know what generosity was because they'd never known it. This was one of the first signs of child abuse: Neglect.

Stephanie felt ill. It couldn't be... the Croydons were mean but surely not cruel...

"It's fine, you suit these." Stephanie complemented, nodding in appreciation. "If you get cold with the shorts just tell me and we can get you something else."

She wouldn't, Steph knew. That just meant Steph would have to keep an eye out for any shivers.

"Really?" Rachel fiddled with the shirt. _Should get her a necklace_ , Steph thought. _Something to fiddle with, maybe a bracelet._

"Yeah," Stephanie let her survey herself in the mirror, bounding over to her bed. She slipped her diary shut before putting it back under her pillow. The invisible ink marker found itself shoved back inside the pencil case. Stephanie jumped onto her bed. "Where do you—"

_And the season's storm is gonna be unknown_

Rachel flinched back at the sudden music blaring out and Stephanie scrambled to mute her phone, heart thumping. The audio rung in her ears, loud and clear as ever. She turned around, smile sheepish and every bit as apologetic as it seemed. "Sorry," she got out at Rachel's wide eyed gaze. "Sat on my phone and it hit the button."

"That's okay," either Rachel's voice was really quiet or Stephanie was struggling with the sudden volume that had blared —what felt like— right into her ears.

"As I was saying, where do you wanna go first?"

"Anywhere?"

 

 

"Yo, Steph!" Duke hollered at her as she stepped out of the library. The African-American boy jogged up beside her, grinning. "Dinner's ready. Alfie's been shoutin'."

"Oops," Steph pulled a face. It wasn't common for Alfred to shout unless they were late to the table, which on the other hand was very common. "I hope we're not the only ones late."

"'We'?" Her brother echoed. Understanding flashed through his mocha brown eyes as Rachel emerged behind her, softly closing the library door after her. "Oh, hey."

Rachel looked up at him, hands shooting to grab at the untucked hem of her shirt. "Hello..."

"I'm Duke," Duke introduced himself, sticking his hand out as Steph stepped back to let him talk to Rachel. The girl swallowed as her eyes fluttered over his hand before she grabbed it and shook. By the looks of it, Duke was the main benefactor in the handshake. Not that his charming smile showed anything other than kindness. "Duke Thomas. It's nice ta meet ya."

"I'm Rachel," said the sixteen year old. She spoke so quietly Steph strained to hear but Duke just smiled brighter.

"Nice name. Wasn't there a Rachel who once shepherded a thousand sheep alone?" Duke tried to make conversation with his nerdiness despite the fact that they were late for dinner.

"I wouldn't know," Rachel shrugged meekly. Duke, probably thinking the same thing as Stephanie, ushered them all along, walking and talking.

"Ya getting a tour of the Manor?" Duke questioned. "This place is real big, ya can't have seen all of it."

"Yeah," Rachel started and seemed to get lost.

"Still have to show her the Den," Stephanie offered, bouncing along.

"Awesome. Maybe we could get together a movie in there later," the twenty year old suggested. "There's that new Men in Black movie comin' out, maybe we could watch some of the ol' ones."

"That sounds nice," Rachel said. Steph was sure that Cass would be willing to sit with them, if no one else was able to.

Steph strode into the dining room first. Duke ushering Rachel in after. Steph would never understand why they all couldn't just eat dinner in the living room, gathered around the tv but Alfred was insistent on them using the dining room. It was probably for the table, for it was long and big enough to seat twenty. Unfortunately it only ever seen ten at most.

Bruce was already there, sitting at the head with Terry to his right. Damian wasn't on his left, his chair empty but everyone else was there, except for Cass and Jason. Stephanie took a seat, urging Rachel down beside her.

Rachel sat down shyly, seeming so small when compared to Stephanie's side-length view of her sitting at the table. Tim waved at her and she smiled back.

A couple seconds later Cass appeared, taking her seat after winking at Steph —to which she responded in same— and then Jason showed up, grumbling out an apology and something about science homework for Mr. McKay. Damian's seat sat empty.

Finally, Bruce cleared his throat. "We'll cut to the chase, as Damian's taking his time. First time introductions are at call as we have a guest at the table."

Steph didn't look at Rachel like everyone else was but she could already feel the embarrassment at being called out.

"Hi," she choked out, giving a little finger wave. "I'm Rachel."

"Rachel will be staying with us for the next few days and I expect you all to treat her as you would anyone else; with kindness." Bruce announced. "Introduce yourselves."

Terry started first, beaming smile right at home on his face as he leaned over his clean plate to look at Rachel. "I'm Terry and I'm 21. It's nice to meet you Rachel. Tim talks a lot about you."

Tim flushed red as Rachel smiled awkwardly.

"I'm Barbara Gordon," Barbara winked. "I'm 20. Bruce kidnapped me and hasn't let me leave in years."

Rachel had no outward reaction to that as Terry burst into laughter.

"You stuck around all by yourself, Babs!" The twenty-one year old grinned.

"Says who?"

"I am Cass," Cass nodded. "But you know that. I am 18."

"It's me again," Duke clapped. "DJ Duke comin' in at the sweet age of 20."

"He's a geek," Terry mock whispered.

"I'm actually a nerd," Duke corrected, sniffing as he tried to look offended. The smile was what failed him. "Nerds are practitioners, geeks are only fans."

"Jason. 15." Jason harrumped. Rude was his speciality.

"And I'm Steph," Stephanie grinned, cutting off Tim before he even opened his mouth. "Looking good as ever at a glorious 18."

"Steph!" He yelped, becoming flustered under Steph's wicked grin. "Um, I'm Tim. I'm 16, too."

"You can call me Bruce. And although I'd prefer to not state my age I will persevere through the laughter and say that I am 41." Bruce smiled softly as a couple people snickered, focussing his intense grey eyed stare on Rachel. "Do you pray, Rachel?"

"Uh—" the girl blinked. She seemed confused which was telling enough. "No."

"Alright. Eat up, everyone."

The volume steadily rose as everyone reached for the platters Alfred had set out. There was one with salad in it, which got passed around and others that had chicken and sweet potatoes and tomatoes. Stephanie made sure Rachel got before she did.

It wouldn't be good to have the kid starve on her watch, after all.

Five minutes later Damian showed up.

"Apologies, Father," he said, walking in through the open doorway. "I was held up at the Precinct, Commissioner Gordon does love to talk."

"You've got my dad right," Barbara laughed.

"We have a guest with us, Damian. Introduce yourself, name and age." Bruce ordered lightly.

Damian cast his gaze down the table. He raised his chin, "I am Damian al Ghul-Wayne. 19. You would be?"

"I'm Rachel, 16."

"That's not your name." Damian frowned, curtly shaking his head as he sat and tucked his napkin onto his lap. "How do you really say it?"

Rachel's eyes shot wide. "W—what?"

Stephanie opened her mouth to butt in, to tell Damian to go fuck himself because _that was her name_ but Damian powered on.

"Americans say things differently. If I had let it be then everyone would be calling me _Damien."_

"Hey! Just 'cuz we call things as we see them—!" Terry laughed.

"Rachel," Rachel said again but this time it sounded like 'Ray-kel'. Her smile was amused. "Americans do tend to say things oddly."

"Middle Eastern?" Damian guessed, probably because he was most familiar with that area.

"Romania," Rachel responded. "My family all came from there."

"So," Duke said in the silence that came after. "Rachel hasn't seen the Den yet so we were gonna have a movie marathon. Who wants to come with?"

Steph didn't miss the smile that blossomed on Rachel's face as Duke pronounced her name the way she had. She made a note to get into that way of pronunciation.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: Sizes for the clothing were originally UK sizes (as that's what I work in) but i have now changed them to US.
> 
> UK size - US size  
> 8 - 4 (roughly Rachel's, that or UK 6- US 2.)  
> 10 - 6 (Cass' size)  
> 12 - 8 (Steph's size)
> 
> I hope these get my point across correctly. I also hope I've used these correctly.


	14. It is not God I fear, but Man

 

Damian sat in silence. His fingers worked the needles which furthermore worked the wool, in turn, as the television blurred with images taken on phones from the Joker's most recent venture into Gotham Academy. People were still talking about the incident _,_ even three days after the spectacle and he'd grown tired of it.

Not that the attack was anything new, by all standards the most surprising was the collapse of the auditorium hall's roof. Even then, they'd all begun to wonder eventually when it would happen.

Ergo the tv was muted to block out unwanted sound. It would not do to ruin Terrance's present by an unfortunate, previously avoidable slight of hand.

It was interesting though. Seeing with his own eyes what his siblings seen and what the girl —Croydon— had seen. The girl was still with them, despite her trying to leave on the second day. Pennyworth had taken a likening to her, or else Father was being E.C. again and was stalling for some revelation to happen between them where he could find an excuse to give her a more permenant bed within the Manor's walls. Such behaviour was uncorodinated and uncalled for but his Father was nothing if not thorough. If he believed the Croydon girl to be in a bad place, then Damian was more partial to believe and follow him than he'd like to admit.

Not that he would. Although it was surely already vastly known.

A soft knock on his door had him turning around in his chair. "It's unlocked," he called. His large bedroom door was tipped open by the slightest few inches, with Croydon peeking her head through the gap. She blinked, staring at him. Damian stared back.

He must've looked odd, perhaps. Maybe it was the black scarf curled around his lap that would soon be Terrance's Day of Birth present, or possibly it was Titus staring at her. Damian knew the Great Dane had an intimidating structure, being up to his hip when on all fours. Croydon kept staring, enough so that it made him wonder if it was in fact _him_ , sitting in his woven armchair in front of his hearth, the tv playing above it. Perchance, he was the problem?

Thomas always claimed he was intimidating. Damian didn't think as such but he knew how it could be awkward around new people, apparently — according to Terrance he was too tall, at 6'5, too silent and altogether looked immensely broody. Which people were intimidated by, allegedly.

_It's the broody look,_ a voice sounding like Gordon chirped. It was not his fault if people feared the unknown, for how should they survive in the world if they feared a man such as he. Damian knew very well, from first hand experience and passed down tales, that there were people out there far worse than him. Far, far worse.

"Croydon," he nodded after what felt like years of silence but was just a few minutes. He set down his knitting on the arm of his chair, standing to approach. "What brings you here?"

This was unusual. People didn't tend to seek him out unless it was under ulterior motives or because Pennyworth had sent them. Croydon had been in the Manor for three days and he hadn't seen her once, as she tended to mope about with Drake or Brown, thereby in extension, Cain. She hadn't even met Titus yet. He pondered if she would like Penny before deciding that if the prideful chickadee wasn't about then she could introduce herself. The bird was more than capable.

Alfred the Cat was a lost cause. He didn't listen much on a good day.

"I didn't know you had a dog," she says as Titus stands, prowling towards her. He sniffed at her legs. The girl having no outward reaction to the dog that could easily surpass her chest was surprising.

"His name is Titus," Damian scowled. The girl made no movement still. "He does not bite."

"Only bark, boy?" She asked finally, opening the door a bit more to rub at the Dane's ears. Damian noted how she didn't step towards Titus, instead letting him approach her on his own terms. _How curious_ _,_ he thought.

Titus seemed to like her, wagging his tail and walking around her legs in a tight circle as he was. Croydon looked nonplussed by it as she observed but Damian still spoke up, feeling the need to do so. Never before had the silence felt so oppresive, so suffocating, not even bowed before his Grandfather. And what did a mere teenager have on his centuries old Grandfather?

"That is how he shows affection," he announced, stepping towards them. Croydon looked up at him, the white bandage around her bicep stark in comparison to her mauve t-shirt. Something glimmered in her eyes when she looked back down at his dog. Was it amusement? Joy, maybe? Damian could not tell and that deeply vexed him. "He likes you."

People were all so easy to read. Even his siblings. So why could he not tell what this girl was feeling? Mother had taught him this art years ago, before Cain and before he had gone on to supervise her under Shiva's guidance. He wondered if Cain could read her when he could not.

"I like him too."

But to him, the girl radiated nothing. Almost as if she felt nothing. It was unsettling and Damian straightened his shoulders rather than giving in to the urge to shift like a nervous cat.

_Suspicious,_ the voice of the assassin he'd long ago drowned out screeched. _Be cautious! Be stealthy!_

"You are here?" He prompted again. It didn't fail his notice that she had diverted the conversation away from it previously. Damian wanted to be suspicious, wanted to snarl and tell her to leave but Titus seemed to indeed like her and she him. It was not everyday his Great Dane friend met someone who didn't run off in fear that was not one of their family. Even then Thomas had fainted at the sight of him the first time. A Great Dane bounding towards you tended to do that.

"I wondered whose room this was," she said softly. It was so quiet Damian very nearly did not hear her. That perked his attention, making him look up at her intently. She was pale, thin too, obvious through the shirt that seemed too big on her.

He frowned, "Has Drake not yet given you a tour?" Damian would've thought that either he or Brown would have pulled their act together by now and gave the girl a tour of the Manor. If so, only because she seemed to be staying here for the unforeseeable future. Once more, he mused upon whose intervention that was due to.

"Drake?" She asked. Her eyebrows pulled down in confusion. Damian marvelled at the act, for her oddities she was certainly innocent. Strikingly so. "Oh— you mean Timothy. Steph did. There's just so many rooms, it's hard to remember them all."

That was fair. Damian had first had trouble remembering which identical marble door led to the gym and which one the locker-part-washroom, down in the Cave. It had taken him a week and this girl was by far not as calm with her surroundings as he had been back then. Plus, there hadn't been as many taken bedrooms back then, all their previous guest ones were now taken up by permenant residents.

He'd been younger though.

Different backgrounds, he supposed.

"Ah, of course," he nodded. The girl's eyes strayed, scouring his room. It was largely bare, the only vaguely mentionable things being the large white fitted queen bed, his favoured armchair, the television, his drawers and his walk-in closet along with his hearth. Damian will freely admit a tolerance for the hearth, mainly because its heat was enjoyable and reminded him of home; the mountains of Tibet and then occasionally Saudi Arabia. "I suffered from the same problem my first week here."

Croydon seemed to brighten at that, smiling ever so slightly at him before ducking her head back down. She cooed at Titus, rubbing his neck and not even having to bend down to reach him whilst doing so. Damian studied her, perhaps, by all intents, she was merely shy. That did not explain the lack of emotions though. No child nor adult's barriers were that good, unless—

Maybe his Father certainly _was_ on to something.

Damian wanted to kick her out, back into the hallway for it would be easy enough, seeing as she was already standing in it. Somehow, for some reason, he does not. Instead, he nodded at her and waved an arm towards the cushioned, less worn, identical armchair (the one of which Cain sits in when she comes over for a talk) to the right of his own and says, "Why don't you join me? Have you ever seen that tv show _Mr. Magoo_?"

Croydon's slow blink is answer enough.

 

 

Terry is floating in the doorway, he knows. He's well aware —always hypersensitive, he _always_ knows— of why he's not allowed to help Alfie with dinner ever again. In the older man's exact words, "I will not be having my kitchen burnt down _again,_ Master Terrance. Much appreciated."

So here he is. Floating in the doorway like a sad Casper the ghost.

"Why don't you summon Master Damian, Master Terrance?" Alfie suggests, dishing up the mash potatoes for his Special Sunday Dinner. Terry can almost taste them already, feel the buttery goodness on the tip of his tongue but he does as told. He'll be eating it soon enough anyway, any wait is worth the wait when it's for Alfie's food. Especially his Special Sunday Dinner. It was the _best_.

He daydreams as he climbs the grand staircase. Roast chicken, dripping in juices, seasoned to perfection. Buttery, mashed potatoes. Healthy looking and tasting broccoli, tempting mushrooms and zealous carrot sticks. Alfie's food is the best, which is something the entire family can agree on. Probably because they're still scarred for life from the last time Bruce cooked when Alfie was on holiday.

Terry will never get over the fact that he made even processed food taste _horrific._ His tastebuds rebel at the very traumatising thought so he carries on with a shiver to spare. Thank God walls don't judge.

Damian prefers silence, goodness knows why. He'd picked the bedroom farthest from his and B's in the start but when the others had begun moving in he'd taken claim of the bedroom opposite B's. His old bedroom was considerably smaller and is still, to this day, a guest bedroom. Although the old sword slashes and burn marks (Terry still doesn't know how they got there and D won't tell) on the walls have made for a very artistic, painting filled bedroom.

A minute has passed by the time he's made it to the end of the hallway-turning-balcony that has all of their bedrooms on it. There's fifteen rooms, five of which overlook the lobby with a pretty balcony that's mainly only got railings because of the height difference and B's paranoia. Railings were the right thing to do, Terry concedes, because he's sure someone would've fallen off the second floor by now if they weren't there.

They've only ever had one incident with the grandstaircase too, in well over a decade, and they all intend to keep it that way.

Terry never knocks so he sees no point to it now. Damian's door opens smoothly as always, but instead of the piercing stare of a familiar Great Dane he's treated to the sight of Damian reading, his reading glasses perched on his nose like the dainty things they are, and Rachel sitting in the twin armchair beside him, solely focussed on the episode of _Mr. Magoo_ on Damian's tv. Titus is curled around Rachel's feet.

He quells the internal combustion of excitement that threatens to spill forth in a sure to be inhumane squeal just in time to change it into a choked giggle. Almost instantly Damian looks over at him, not at all amused.

"Terrance," he says, "Were you aware the Hunger Games had a third movie?"

His brother seems entirely serious but Terry doesn't know whether he actually is or not. He decides to be truthful, "Yeah. Why?"

"Told you," Rachel says and Terry thinks that's the most he's heard her speak in the last two days aside from her first, hushed "Hello" when he'd nearly walked into her when she was with Tim. Not counting the first night's dinner, of course. "Everyone knows this, Dami. It's common knowledge."

"I am unsure as to how exactly I was unaware." Damian says, tongue haughty as the day he was born like it usually gets when he's comfortable. Terry's surprised because the last he heard his brother speak like this was years ago, when Jason wasn't around to continuously challange him, or when the younger ones weren't quite so rebellious, always getting hurt. And a nickname already? How come D made all the friends? "We will have to watch it."

"It's not as good as the first two," Rachel added.

"Sorry to interupt your movie debates," Terry said before Damian could start off on a whole spiel of how he believed the second to be better and how that's appalling for a franchise such as that because 'aren't first impressions everything?' "But Alfie's made S.S.D. and I'm not showing up late for it."

He skipping down the hallway before they can blink. "S.S.D?" He hears Rachel ask.

"Special Sunday Dinner. It's basically a Sunday dinner, Pennyworth style." Damian returns. "Don't ask about the name choice. I did not pick it."

"Didn't think you did. Sounds like some disease."

Damian makes a choked sound that Terry assumes is a cut-off laugh. He's too taken with the thought of Rachel making friends with _Damian_ of all people to care for the slight against his and Steph's chosen name for heaven embodied.

How peculiar.

 


	15. Forging Fires for the Brooke of Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All good things come to an end eventually. For Rachel, it's just a bit too quick.

 

"Hey, Rachel," Tim knocked on her door and Rachel scrambled to button up the blue shirt Stephanie had been so kind to give her. She'd been enjoying lazing on her bed but apparently no one got that privilege in Wayne Manor. "You wanna take Ace and Titus on a walk?"

"Where to?" She asked, opening the door. It was large and the wood heavy. She still hadn't quite gotten the hang of twisting the knob. The Croydon's had handle-shaped ones on their doors, not these antique rounded knobs with intricate faces carved into them.

"Just around the grounds," the boy said, turning and already beckoning for her to follow. He looked good in his grey half-zip, his hair swiped to the side. Rachel found herself oogling his ass through his jeans more than she listened as they walked.

Ace was Bruce's dog that Terry had kinda stolen from him. The dog was a large German Shepherd that rivalled Titus in size and had just as sharp teeth, although he looked friendlier. His long coat was a nice creamy brown that flushed a shiny white whereas Titus was black and stayed black.

Never let it be said that dogs are not faster than humans because the moment the back veranda door opened up the two dogs were off like rockets. They barked and snapped at each others tails like old friends.

Together, she and Tim walked down a small gravel path, weaving around glorious statues and artistically cut hedges. Their designs almost would've been funny but there was something serious about the angles on them that made Rachel stare.

"Alf cuts them," Tim said, noticing her gaze. "Damian occassionally joins him. Looks like Damian did these ones."

"How can you tell?" Rachel asked, continuing to walk but still looking at the dark green hedges. There was a large fox in the middle, surrounded by what seemed to be a leaf, a dagger, a bat with its wings hugged tight and a giraffe.

"Damian cuts weird things. Alfred tends to stick with elephants and cookies and planes."

"Planes?"

Tim looked at her from the corner of his eye, hands shoved in his pockets as they walked. Titus barked from up ahead, he and Ace running about in grass that came up to Rachel's knees. Behind them was a large concrete wall, gargoyles perched on the posts every ten feet along, a large, plush forest tickling at the border where the walls were forced to turn into bars to allow the trees growth. There seemed to be a handful of trees inside the perimetre of the walls too, growing large and spindly like Rachel had seen very old trees do so in pictures online.

"Alfred's a retired RAF pilot," Tim said eventually. There were birds tweeting, their songs rhythmic and soothing. The dogs seemed content to scuffle in and around the trees, nuzzling at a family of rabbits for a second before leaving them be to collect sticks to hurl at each other. Rachel found it amusing and couldn't stop the smile that formed at their antics.

"That's interesting." Rachel said, and it really was. She just didn't care too much. There was an old stone bench out by a bit of grass that was shorter than the rest. Intrigued, she went off the little stone path and looked at it.

 _In memory of William Oscar Wayne,_ it said. _He who brought life to within these walls and planted these trees._

"One of our greats," Tim said as he too stared at the carved words in one of the legs of the bench. He sat on it carefully, as if scared it would break. It looked sturdy to Rachel, and she had more than enough experience with Main Gotham's cornice's to tell when stone was strong, so she sat down too. "This bench has been here long before Bruce's time."

"You seem to know a lot." She remarked.

Tim laughed, "Nah. I just don't leave the grounds much."

"Too busy reading?" She guessed.

"Too busy programming." He shook his head. "I now know that trying to make a robot that can both make you coffee and clean your room is a bit much to ask for, nevermind _make_."

Tim chuckled and Rachel laughed along. "I'm sure you'll hit the jackpot soon. Good things come for those who wait, don't they?"

Ace disappeared for a second, out in the grass, and popped up again, soaking wet. There must've been a puddle or stream out there that wasn't visible from where they sat. Rachel watched as Titus snooped up to him, took a sniff and went running. Ace barked indignantly and followed suit.

"Supposedly," Tim said.

"Don't get all angsty on me, Timothy." She prodded as Tim didn't explain. "What's up?"

"I heard you and Aleksandr were together." It wasn't a question yet Tim refused to look her in the eye. Rachel debated the pros and cons of telling him the truth (a variated version of the truth) or just spewing out some bullshit about how they both liked each other.

_"Truth will get you far in life, my child." Tătic had always boasted, claiming it was how he had gotten Mami._

"I had no money, Tim." Rachel confessed, twisting her fingers so forcefully it probably looked as if she wanted to break them. "I messed up and suddenly had nothing. Alek found out and offered to help but we figured people would get suspicious if he suddenly gave me loads of money."

"You set it up," Tim gasped. Rachel couldn't bare to look in his direction. "This; a fake relationship."

"Yes," she nodded. Rachel didn't understand why her stomach felt like it was pulling itself in. Was this shame? She shouldn't feel ashamed — she had done what was needed, _necessary,_ even if she was giving Tim a pirated version of events. "He thought up of it."

"Do you like him?" Tim's sudden question made her look up at him. His eyes were firm, not hating but seeking understanding, and his hair fluttered around his face like a picture frame. "Did you ever?"

"Does that even matter?" She said, releasing a breath as she turned back to stare at the lush green trees. Ace barked at Titus as they raced by, tumbling in the grass. She wanted to be as carefree as them, for once. She wanted to not have to worry about anything, not about friendships, or secrets, or lies.

"Love always matters." Tim answered. "It's the base layer of everything. You either hate it or you love it, as some say and in a way they're not lying."

"I don't know."

"You don't know if you love him?" Tim sounded confused.

Rachel hugged her arms, careful of her left bicep. It twinged anyway, rendering her caution useless. "How am I meant to love when I can't? Tim, I haven't felt love in so long I'm not even sure I could tell what it was if I felt it."

"It's like a warm summer's day inside your chest," Tim said softly, surprising her. She jerked but didn't turn around. "It's a fluttering, jumping, _happy_ feeling in your stomach and whenever you love someone you're usually happy by being around them — or by seeing them. Loving someone is not looking at them and feeling nothing, it's looking at someone and wanting to hug or kiss or comfort them. Wanting to help them if they fall, wanting to praise them when they prosper."

"Yeah, well, I don't know, Tim." Rachel cut him off before everything got more uncomfortable than it already was. She had a limit on her emotional capacity and as it was she'd passed it days ago. "Guess my love died with my parents."

She got up and walked away, not waiting to hear Tim's response. Titus bounded up to her when she was a couple feet away from Tim and offered her the stick in his mouth, dropping it at her feet. She bent over to pick it up, twirling it in her hand.

"Do you know what love is, boy?" She rubbed his head as the Great Dane barked enthusiastically. Ace bounded up from behind a tree, fluffy coat bouncing with each stride. His tongue was hanging out of his mouth as he jumped along, deadset on Titus' location. Rachel grinned, spared a look at the dog beaming up at her and threw the stick.

The two immediately bolted after it. Ace made it to it first, gleefully gave it back to her and that was how she spent the next hour of her life; throwing a stick for two dogs to fetch. Tim didn't talk to her again and when she turned back around to call on him to join in, smile huge, she found him gone.

Staring at an empty bench she suddenly didn't have the strength to smile so bright anymore. She didn't understand why her chest hurt so much at the sight of the bench empty.

 

 

The library door opened and Barbara braced herself for the wrath of an irate Damian.

"Oh," was what she heard instead. Soft, reserved and definitely female. "I'm sorry, I didn't know you were here — I could leave if you'd like."

"It's fine, Rachel," she said, careful to pronounce the younger girl's name correctly. "Come on in."

Patrol had been taxing, with more than one Bat jumping out into unnecessary harm more than once throughout the night. It had pulled her blood pressure up so before bed Barbara had decided to get a reading session in at the library. She hadn't been expecting any disturbances, aside from maybe Solomon, so she was only dressed in her dressing gown, her slippers discarded on the floor.

After a stunted moment, Rachel pushed the door open meekly and entered. The girl looked tired and worn down, especially with one of Cass' old night dresses hanging on her. She stood by the door, far away from the fire and Barbara, almost unwilling to approach.

Barbara wondered how much of her hesitance was from fear and how much was from nervousness.

"I don't bite," she said softly, setting down her book on her legs, cardboard piece in place as a marker. "C'mere."

"You people say that a lot," Rachel whispered, eyes wide in the glow of the fire. Barbara knew it was cold, it was why she had the fire on at this time of night, and Rachel was only wearing a night dress which worried her.

"Oh? Who else has said it?" Barbara asked, showing interest in an effort to urge the girl closer. It wouldn't be nice to get sick while in a strange house, she thought. She knew she wouldn't like it.

"Dami," the younger girl said, voice fond as she picked at the hem of her dress. She shuffled closer by a few steps but remained largely alienated from both Barbara's immediate eyeline and the fire's heat. "He said it."

"Did he now? You wanna sit with me?" Barbata changed her tactics, sitting up to pat the new space beside her. Rachel chewed on her lower lip, hesitance clear. "I could read to you if you'd like."

That seemed to do it and it broke Barbara's heart how the younger girl seemed excited at someone reading to her. Was this not a sign of something bad going on in the background? Rachel was sixteen yet she curled up beside Barbara with her feet tucked under her like a ten year old. Not that Barbara minded essentially watching her for the night — _it's three in the morning, she shouldn't be up,_ murmured in the back of her head— it was more the fact that normal teens didn't seek out a practical stranger for company. No, that was a lie; Rachel had said earlier how she hadn't expected to see her, which meant she'd come to the library to sit all alone in the drafty room in a too big chair.

Something about it tugged at Barbara's chest. Maybe that was why she reached back and pulled the fluffy blanket from the back of the chair and flipped it over the both of them. Rachel looked like she could use the heat anyway.

"What are you reading?" The girl asked, hair casting a shadow over her face. It made her look sad. The gap between them wasn't helping either, so Barbara shifted closer to her and tried to not tear up at how Rachel stiffened at the contact.

"I'm reading the Art of War by Sun Tzui. Are you alright with me reading it from where I am or would you like me to go to the start?" Barbara hummed quietly, tucking the blanket around herself that bit more. It certainly was getting cool. She hoped Solomon didn't show up out of the blue and scare Rachel. God knows how she'd explain the existence of a real life ghost to the tired teen.

"I don't want to interrupt," Rachel echoed. "Isn't the Art of War in Chinese though?"

"It is," Barbara said, impressed. Here she was thinking the girl had probably never heard of the book. "I'm reading the original, are you alright with Chinese?"

"Are you fluent?" Rachel asked instead. She seemed more interested now, looking up at her with an innocent curiosity.

_A sign of Child Abuse:_ _Mental age regression: Children, often young ones, act younger than they are._

"I'd like to think so, though Damian would say otherwise." Barbara smiled, worrying over this new detail. "Terry is quite good though, maybe we could teach you some."

"Then we could have secret conversations," Rachel giggled and it had to be sleep deprivation talking now because no sixteen year old acted like this.

"That sounds great," it wasn't like most of the house's inhabitants knew Chinese or anything. Rachel beamed at her, snuggling a little closer. Barbara felt her heart reach out for the girl.

When no more questions came she began to read, starting at the beginning again despite Rachel's mewls of protest. As she read, she thought.

Rachel displayed too many signs of abuse to be dismissed and that worried her. The girl was impossibly skinny to the point where Cass' old clothes barely fit her (and Cass was the smallest of them all), she was probably underweight, possibly slightly malnourished and denied food — judging from how she'd frozen up when Jason had offered her a chocolate bar, only to take it after Jason had insisted on him not wanting it. She skirted around conversations like they were the plague, stuck close to those she already knew (which could be put down to being in a strange place with a strange family — yes, Barbara admitted they were strange) and showed a mental age significantly younger than her physical one.

Now maybe this could be the stress, the kid _had_ had a run-in with _the Joker_ and been _stabbed_ by him, so trauma was to be expected. But most kids didn't act so hesitant about accepting things. Stephanie had told her how the girl had asked her multiple times if her wearing her blue shirt was alright, and not because she was trying to weasel it away for herself but because she had been geniunely _worried_ that she'd been overstepping boundaries.

Did Bruce know about this? Is this why he'd offered her a place to stay, had he spaed something?

"If the Commissioner is your _tătic_ then why do you live here?"

Barbara blinked at the question. It was the first one in a while and by all sides Rachel looked inches away from sleep. Blanket clutched close, head resting on Barbara's shoulder, body completely lax, her gaze trained on the book's yellowed pages.

How could she word this? "He _is_ my dad," she said, knowing enough Romanian to know what she'd said. "And I love him like he loves me, he just... wasn't a very good dad."

Rachel shifted closer to her, hands coming up to clutch at Barbara's arm. She squeezed, her fingers cold. "Did he... Did he hurt you?"

Barbara swallowed and licked her lips to buy herself time. "No." She said carefully. "He was just very sad."

"Oh," Rachel murmured. "He didn't call you names?"

Barbara wasn't sure she liked where this was going. Her stomach twisted.

"No, he didn't," she said. "Rachel do— your parents— are they mean to you?"

Rachel didn't respond and a pit three feet wide and never ending opened up in Barbara's stomach.

"Rachel?" She whispered, the only sound in the room aside from the crackling fire.

"Sometimes," the girl whispered. So quietly Barbara strained to hear. "Miranda usually just calls me names, though."

"Like what, Rachel?" Barbara prodded gently.

"Like— Like..." Rachel trailed off with a hiccup before curling into herself. Barbara felt her chest constrict and instinctively pulled her close, her book left abandoned on the arm of the chair.

"It's okay," she soothed, rocking her back and forth as much as she could. Rachel wasn't exactly crying, per se, but she _was_ hiccupping and shaking like she was about to burst into tears any minute. "It's okay, Rachel. You don't have to tell me."

"They say my name wrong," Rachel wheezed a few minutes later, when her hiccups had calmed a tad. "They say it like everyone else, even after I asked them not to. A— And _Croydon,_ I'm not— _I'm not a Croydon._ My _Mami_ and _Tătic_ were Grayson, not Croydon but they said—"

"What did they say, Rachel?" Barbara asked, mind reeling. Her blood surged through her veins. She felt angry; _how_ _dare_ they do this to an _i_ _nnocent_ little girl.

"They said they would let me rot in St. Mary's if I didn't take their name, so I did!" Rachel wailed. Barbara's motherly instinct to comfort won over the anger at the Croydons and she pulled the girl up into her lap, shushing and murming to her, blanket wrapped tight.

It wasn't her fault her adoptive family were intrinsically evil.

Ten minutes later Rachel had cried herself to sleep, Barbara curled up with her on the Chesterfield couch.

"I'll tell Bruce later," Barbara reassured the sleeping girl. "He'll fix it, just give him some time. Everything will be alright. I promise, Rachel."

She never had liked the Croydons, Amanda especially.

It was about time they got what they deserved.

 

 

Rachel hummed as she tapped the Xbox controllers buttons, contorting the character in screen in the hopes of jumping up onto a crate. Thinking back on it, Fortnite had seemed easier when it was Jason was the one spamming the buttons.

Speak of the devil and he will appear, Jason hopped the back of one of three couches and dropped down on the navy beanbag beside her. His grin was huge. "Surprised y'all are still livin'."

"I'm not a complete novice," she fired back, laughing as she shifted on her purple bean bag. She had a feeling it belonged to Stephanie but no one had said anything about it yet so she felt semi-comfortable sitting on it until Steph complained.

"Ya sure?" Jason snickered as she went down from a sniper's head shot.

She blew out a breath, enjoying the low light of the Den. "Never said I was a pro."

The Den was huge, adorned in multiple fluffy blankets and huge beanbags big enough to seat two. There was a 80-odd inch flatscreen tv which the three couches —which sat with layers of cushions and plush cuddly bears— and a couple beanbags sat around, effectively cornering it. There was a ping-pong table in the other half of the room, a couple bats resting on it. the rest of the beanbags were littered about the floor, books and comics lying over both carpet and foldable tables which claimed more than a few coffee cups.

Mismatched paint covered the walls, painting rainbows and what looked like caves, with beady yellow eyes in them. Up on the ceiling was the different symbols of superheroes, the Clan's crests taking up most of the space. Earlier Rachel had noticed, with a fair amount of surprise, Batgirl's black eyed sharp pointed bat too.

Rachel dropped the controller in her lap, waiting patiently for Tim to die as she fell back on her beanbag. She wasn't used to sitting in one, but it was enjoyable how the soft, round ball seemed to cushion her easily. It spawned ideas for _what ifs_ on Batgirl, like extra cushioned shoes that could absorb better than her current ones. So that if she slipped off a 'scraper she wouldn't have to fear breaking her legs if she landed on her feet. It made her giddy, the thought of adding more to her tech.

She wondered if the Bats got this giddy at the thought of evolving. She'd heard Sketcher was partial to tinkering, Red Robin was big on bomb defusal and Oracle was possibly the best in the world when it came to hacking.

Rachel wanted to be as good as them, as stupid as the thought was.

Batgirl was a rogue, she wasn't a part of the Clan. She was a loner who had been left to her own business. A nobody wannabe.

She wasn't optimistic enough to say otherwise.

 _"Here's an old one:_ _War does not determine who is right, only who is left."_ Barbara had hummed between a break in chapters. Rachel couldn't remember if that was one of Sun's quotes but it certainly stuck out.

Speaking of Barbara, she hadn't seen the woman all day. Granted, it _was_ 11 am but Rachel had kinda figured she'd see her at some point. She had woken from a nightmare last night and had went wandering, ending up in the library —which she had previously decided she liked the feel of. Barbara had been there, reading. She'd offered to read to her. Rachel had maybe taken up the offer a bit _too_ forcefully.

Last night was a bit hazy. She remembered snuggling up with Barbara, her voice lulling her into a sense of peace. Then, she'd woken up alone, blanket draped over her.

Barbara had been missing all day. When she'd questioned it, Steph had shrugged something about Bruce going out and taking her with her. Rachel had seen the dismissal for what it was and hadn't pried.

She almost felt... _lonely?_ Rachel wasn't sure _—_ she was a realist, not an optimist. She looked into the future and planned. She didn't waste time on silly things like hope.

Tim let out a groan as he died, looking over to her as he grabbed at the bowl of popcorn on the single real coffee table in the entire Den. "Another?"

"Ugh," Jason grunted, snaking his hand past Tim's to retrieve himself some popcorn. "You can't be serious, Timmo. If this is a date it's a shitty one."

As Tim wasted time gaping, face beet red, Rachel laughed. "Unfortunately not, Jason. Why, do you have any suggestions?"

"How 'bout a movie?" Jason suggested, already standing to poke around the boxes at the front. He pulled out one of the sliding draws to show off lines of dvds. "Pretty sure we've got some series in here, too."

"Any good names?" She asked, not too familiar with movies.

Jason shrugged, rifling through the cases. It put Rachel at ease, seeing how relaxed he was even with her —a practical stranger— in his home. They had never talked _once_ but here he was, acting like this was just another Tuesday.

"Despicables," he said, "Lotta Disney stuff."

"Steph likes it," Tim said in explanation. "She's recently dragged Cass into it too."

There was another face she hadn't seen much of; Cassandra. She was always busy, always gone — always doing something or out with Steph.

"Not feelin' like rewatchin' Men 'n Black," Jason said, talking in his own little paradise. He was bent over, showing off a nice ass and a strong jaw under his mop of black hair.

Rachel nearly choked at the thought.

"John Wick?" Jason pulled his head up, eyes suspiciously blue. They seemed to glow in the dark, like many of the Waynes' eyes. It must've had something to do with their extracurricular activites. "Got all three."

"I thought there was only two?" Jonathan and her had watched them a long time ago. Back when everything had been okay.

"Rachel?" She blinked at her name, looking up at the shuttered eyes of Jason. She spared a glance to Tim and found his jaw set.

"Sorry, daydreaming," she cocked her head sheepishly. "You were saying?"

"Said B gets all the new movies a month 'fore everybody else." Jason replied, seeming curious now. He turned around to pull out all three. "We should have the new MIB movie in a few weeks — you should stick 'round. Maybe we could get another movie night, haven't had one in months 'fore ya came."

Was that appreciation in his tone? Was Jason essentially thanking her for bringing his family together? Rachel must have been hearing things because the back of Jason's head gave away nothing.

"Ya wanna watch them?" Jason asked finally.

"Sure, we should start from the beginning, I guess. No reason not to." Rachel shrugged, sinking deeper into her beanbag. She could get used to this—

There was a knock on the dark wood door and it eased open. Alfred was standing there, looking solemn. The look had both Bats in the room straightening up.

"Alfred?" Tim asked. "What's up?"

"Miss Rachel," the bat butler said, saying her name correctly. "It seems your parents are here to collect you."

The mood in the room, previously having been calm and joyous, plummeted so quickly it stung. The room felt cold now, echoing the words that shot through Rachel's consciousness like a bullet.

"Rachel!" Came the faux happy shout of Amanda Croydon. "Come on, darling. We're going home!"

 


	16. How To: Burning Bridges (Ans: With Hatred and Pain)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rachel... is going through a rough time. No thanks to the Croydons.
> 
> Alek chats to Miranda. So does his Dad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: triggering??? Some serious child abuse going on here guys :(

 

"What the hell were you thinking?" Miranda screeched. A shoe made its way into her stomach, the toe pulling at the end of her ribcage. The pain was immense but Rachel would not scream — she _couldn't_. "Going about with those filthy, thieving _Waynes_ while we're gone? How could you! What were you thinking?"

Miranda and Jonathan had came home from Greece. They weren't happy at finding out she'd been hitting it up with Bruce and his kids after the Joker's show at the Academy, which they called a 'scare incident'.

Jonathan hauled her up by her hurt arm, purposely squeezing the bandages so the stitches ripped and the white bled red. She let out a whimper as her head met the kitchen countertop. Rachel dared a look up and found Miranda purple in the face while Jonathan —strict but silent Mr. Croydon— looked beyond anger. Thomas was standing in the doorway, face blank with an emotion not belonging to him. When he seen her looking a smug grin spread over his face and Rachel's head hit the counter again.

"How dare you." Jonathan was furious. His face seemed huge as he stooped above her, eyes bright with hatred. "You know the Waynes are below us, so why interact with them? They are disgusting, wretched creatures."

"Surprisingly worse than you, bitch." Thomas joined in. The dark blobs in Rachel's vision suddenly became very interesting, especially the ones down flowing along the floor. Miranda laughed horribly.

"Well done, Thomas." The woman who Rachel had once thougut would be a wonderful mother praised her _only_ child. These people didn't love her, they were just here for the reputation taking in a child brought for running for a council member.

She never should've agreed to their hospitality. Should have known something was up the moment they walked into St. Mary's Home for Girls with the proposal of adoption as long as she took their name.

If St. Mary's had been purgatory then this was hell.

"Well, slut?" Miranda goaded, face twisted cruelly. "Anything to say for yourself?"

"Go fuck yourself," Rachel coughed and regretted it the moment Jonathan grabbed her arm and tugged her towards the closet. She tried to struggle, gripping and pulling and screaming. "No! Please, no! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it— please not the dark, _please!"_

"Maybe this will teach you a lesson, girl." Jonathan snarled as her back hit the wall of the closet under the stairs. It was a small four by four space and let no light in, Rachel could already feel her chest constricting. The door slammed shut and she screamed.

 

 

She screamed until her throat was hoarse and she was spitting up blood. She cried until she no longer could, body too dehydrated to allow thick tears the honour of running down her cheeks. Now she sat in silence, hoping that the shadows weren't moving like they seemed to be.

Breathing was hard, was always hard in the closet. Rachel remembered well, even if it had been years since she'd last been shoved into this place. It hadn't changed much, still as small and crampt as ever as she shared the space with old, hole-ridden winter and thin, breezy summer coats. Once she remembered pulling them off their rusted hooks, lining the dusty boards underneath her with them, to lie on, but then Miranda had opened the door at random and screamed at her so loud it still rung in her ears. The coats had vanished. Although, by the time they'd been replenished, Rachel didn't have the courage to lie on them again.

The closet felt a bit like light deprivation, much like being in a white room was sensation deprivation. It was as torturous, as horrific and always gave her nightmares for weeks after. Time seemed odd too, she couldn't tell if she'd been in the closet for two days or two weeks with meals coming sparsely and water coming even fewer times over the course of one week. The only way to truly tell was to stare at a watch, or to sneak a peek at the calendar whenever she got out.

But Rachel didn't have her phone on her (battery low, in her room), didn't have her watch (long ago dismantled for something of Batgirl's). She constantly worried, every second, every minute. She worried Batgirl would miss something important, that people would die because of her absence. She worried Aleksandr would take her silence as rejection and Batgirl would lose her support, her secret would be revealed. Tim would be angry. Damian would never speak to her again. Titus would growl at her. The Waynes would hate her like the Croydons did and it would all be justified.

She'd be alone again. Alone. Mami and Tătic were dead, so were Auntie and Uncle and her Cousin. Miranda detested her, Jonathan didn't give her the time of day. Thomas hit her and called her names even when they were alone.

_Alone._

Everything came back to that, didn't it? She'd be alone no matter what. No one liked Rachel. Everyone hated her because she lied. She lied and she lied and she lied.

No one liked a liar.

Everyone hated liars.

And Rachel was a liar.

She wasn't a Croydon. ( _Grayson,_ whispered a voice.) She wasn't a hero. ( _Monster,_ they screamed.) She wasn't good. ( _Evil, tortured, demented,_ was the chant.) Rachel wasn't even a good Batgirl. (You kill people, screamed Bruce.) She was nothing. Nothing, not even a useless girl, she was nothing. She could do nothing right, could not jump from rooftops without having to flip at least once, could not communicate in languages other than death. She killed people. Innocent people.

_You have the power to stop_ _._

What power? Rachel held no power. She had nothing, was barely a finite speck on the magnifying glass. She was not seen, did no good, changed no lives. Insignificant. She was not special, not important. She was not anything, yet she was nothing.

_You are Batgirl._

That threw her for a loop. Rachel stared at the top of the closet, back aching, knee thrumming with unseen pins and needles. The dark was crowding her, swallowing her whole. It was so, so dark. Rachel didn't like the dark, it reminded her of this closet, of St. Mary's and of how the Big Top had dimmed after her family's deaths.

_I am not Batgirl,_ she thought. _Batgirl is not me._

_Then who is she?_

Rachel let out a shallow breath of musty air. Batgirl was better than her, superior, and for all her good deeds she made up for Rachel's sins. She made up for the sins that had landed her in this hell, became her redemption for life. Redemption for everything. Batgirl may kill, yes, but maybe... Maybe that could change. Maybe, if not fuelled by Rachel's hatred, Batgirl could reform. She could gain the favour of the Bat Clan.

Then maybe they wouldn't hate both of them. Just one. Just Rachel.

She wondered when she'd begun thinking about herself in third person. She couldn't remember. Everything seemed so old, the feel of the dirty gap-filled wooden floorboards pressing against her back was no longer new, the tickle of old air in her lungs was no more painful than it had been the last few times she'd been in this position.

Something crawled along her, the imprint of many legs creeping up her clothes' leg. Rachel jumped, hand shooting out to brush against hair hair hair as she hit it away. There was a small thump, likely against the door or the wall —she couldn't tell anymore— and then silence. Rachel swallowed the scream in favour of shivering.

Maybe if she didn't scream they would let her out sooner. Maybe if she was good for once, quiet, then no one would hate her quite so much. If she was good, maybe people would like her.

 

 

It seems like she's been in here for years, it drags on and on. Hours could be minutes, but they're probably days. Counting doesn't work, not with her stuttering breaths. Sitting there, relying on her mental clock has failed. So she stays in oblivion. Rachel sits, lies, cries. She wonders how long its been, but she does not ask. She never asks.

It only gets her a longer stay. Miranda doesn't like talkers. Never had.

 

 

Aleksandr shifted in his chair. _"Думаешь, мне стоит позвонить ей сейчас, отец? (Do you think I should call her now, Father?)"_

_"Да, мой сын. Позвони ей сейчас. (Yes, my son. Call her now.)"_ Father looked up from his newspaper, eyes squinted behind his half-frame glasses. His brown hair was speckled white in both beard and head and Alek couldn't stop the image of a racoon popping up in his mind's eye. He nearly laughed but settled with a grin.

_"Спасибо! (Thank you!)"_ Aleksandr pulled out his phone. It was now or never. He scrolled through his contacts until he came upon Rachel's, and tapped on it. A beautiful picture of her appeared, along with the dialling motion.

Father resettled back into his chair, newspaper rising but not as high as before. _"Положи на динамик, Алек. (Put it onto speaker, Alek.)"_

_"Конечно, отец. (Of course, Father.)"_ Alek tore his eyes away from Rachel's ocean blue eyes and her lovely smile to regain the use of his fingers. He tapped the button for speaker just as Rachel picked up.

"Rachel!" He cried, grin threatening to make him squint like his Father did when without his glasses. "отец and I are going out to Paris and I was wondering if you would like to come with us."

_"Who is this?"_ A voice that was decidedly _not_ Rachel's questioned. Alek felt his cheeks warm. He had called Rachel before so this was assuredly her number, perhaps this was a relative?

"Apologies, I am Aleksandr. Rachel's boyfriend." His Father had set down his newspaper, eyebrow raised. Alek knew he knew English well enough to be called fluent and he knew the eyebrow raise was a question of what had went wrong.

_"Pardon?"_ The voice —a woman's— made a scoffing noise that Alek had previously thought only those British tv characters did. _"Well, I'm Amanda Croydon, Rachel's mother. My daughter will not be going with you anywhere."_

Alek gaped at the phone. Rachel had said her mother was rude but this was a tad extreme. "Could I talk to Rachel, ma'am?"

_"Rachel is busy, A— what did you say your name was? Could I speak to your father? Your mother?"_

Father did not look happy. He motioned for Alek's phone and Alek could only give it to him. It remained on speaker.

"Hello, Mrs. Croydon." His Father began, his serious voice on. "I apologise for my son's hasty words, we merely wished to invite Rachel to travel with us."

_"Yes, well I do not know what you people do in your country but here in America we don't steal other people's children and run off to Spain with them!"_

Father frowned. "Paris is in France, madam."

_"Same thing!"_ Amanda hissed. _"My daughter will not be going anywhere with you foreigners."_

For a moment Aleksandr feared Father would start shouting at the woman, or something along the lines of expressing his discontent, but he simply spoke calmly. "Would it not do Rachel some good to relax after the incident a week ago? A trip to Paris would relieve some of her stress, do you not think, Amanda?"

_"Relieve some of her stress?"_ Amanda laughed sharply. _"My daughter is fine after that little scare incident. She does not need you people meddling with her life! Do not call her again."_

The phone beeped to signal Amanda had hung up. Father blinked at the screen, astonished.

_"Похоже, твоя девушка не в состоянии сделать это, Александр. (It appears your girlfriend is unable to make it, Aleksandr.)"_ He said remorsefully.

Alek sighed.

_"Фрет нет, Алек. (Fret not, Alek.)"_ Mother called, walking out to the patio where they were holding breakfast. _"Я сделаю несколько пельменей для нее, когда ее ужасная мать отпустит ее. (I will make some peljmeni (dumplings) for her when her horrible mother releases her.)"_

Alekandr burst out laughing, his Mother joining him a second later.

_"Варвара! (Varvara! (Mother's name))"_ Father admonished but even he was laughing.

 


	17. Fly Or Die — There Is No Middle Ground, Little Bird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything falls, Rachel just didn't expect for it to hurt so much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Child Abuse, suffering, pain, loads of detail (kind of), neglect, bad parenting, background exploration,
> 
> If you get triggered or don't like reading a kid suffer, skip to the last couple of paragraphs for basic info.
> 
> Romanian to English:  
> Mami — mommy  
> Tătic — daddy  
> Văr — cousin  
> Tati — auntie  
> Unchi — uncle

 

Up we go. Laughter fills the tent.

Down. Mami arcs beautifully, smile as wide as the horizon. Tătic is smiling beside Rachel, ready to join his wife on the trapeze.

Up so high.

The lights look nice. Rachel looks down at the crowd, cheering and ooh-ing and ahh-ing as the Grayson Family fly. 

Up. Tătic joins Mami. Tati and Unchi go on too, taking their own swing to join her parents.

The big top of the circus tent is so close yet so far.

Down. Văr joins his parents with a brilliant twirl and jump. Rachel readies to join her own.

Both swings' wire snaps.

Down. Unchi hollers a warning just as her parents' swing tips in on itself, twisting and coiling. Tătic struggles to grip onto the only remaining wire.

They should be coming back, why aren't they? Why do they hold on? Rachel can't move. Her family stays on the trapeze as Mami screams, the sound echoing. 

Swing back, she mumurs. Come back.

_Mami!_

Falling. It all seems so slow. The crowd's screams are drowned out as she watches them freefall. 

(Come back, please!)

_Tătic!_

They're falling.

(They won't come back, she knows.)

[Mami hits first,  jaw cracking off the ground to splinter into pieces. Tati second, her hair falling over her eyes like a shawl as văr drops beside her, leg twisted too far to be natural. Tătic goes down too, yelling something in their mother tongue that Rachel can't hear because the next moment the image of his spine bending to peek out of his back is engraved in her mind. Unchi cries out as he drops to the left of Tati.

The blood weeps into the ground staining it. It's everywhere. 

The puddle is huge. Her family's blood is everywhere.]

(No!)

**We all fall.**

 

 

Rachel couldn't sit up anymore. Couldn't hope to, because she got dizzy. She got so, so dizzy; so dizzy she can't tell up from down, even with her back against a wall. One minute she could be staring upwards, likely at the ceiling, the next she'll be curled on her side, eyes closed against moving shadows that are coming to get her.

(Because everything's coming to get her, everything's out for her. Otherwise she wouldn't be in here still. Wouldn't still be in the closet if people cared.)

She's scared. There's no other word for it. Rachel is afraid of so many things. Afraid of not being enough, the dark, spiders.

And it's all happening. All of her fears are coming to life, happening now. Worst of all, she's powerless to stop it.

_Why do they not let you out?_ A voice asked, barely a murmur in the coil of her mind.

_I've been bad,_ she thought back. _Bad girls get punished._

Batgirl didn't get afraid, but she wasn't Batgirl.

 

 

The door creaks open on what day or what hour Rachel does not know. All she knows is that _chink chink_ is the sound of the lock being undone, she knows the groan the wood gives as someone tries to pull at it (she would know). Rachel curled into the corner, arms tight around her, legs stiff. The desperation to stay away from cruel eyes and sharp grins is immense. It swallows her whole.

"Here's some water, you good for nothing _whore_." A metal dish is dropped by the edge between closet and door. Some of the water sloshed over the side, spilling down onto the wood and Miranda audibly scowled. Her red heel kicked the dog bowl into the closet's confines, dropping a cereal bar into the puddle. It was still wrapped but Rachel caught a glimpse of the oat-filled, rasin mixed image. Her stomach growled silently and saliva flooded her mouth.

She was so hungry. So, so _hungry_. When had she last eaten? What had she last eaten?

As Rachel's stomach begged for the food and her mind debated reaching out to grab it, Miranda's sharp heel came down on the bar. Its packaging popped, air rushing out like a deflating balloon. And just like that the bar was crushed in the middle. _Still food,_ she thinks, eyes wide even as Miranda stomps down continously on the bar. _My food._

"There you are," Miranda cooed, voice sickly sweet as it wavered on the edge of hysteria. "It's just as broken as you now."

With those words, Miranda booted the cereal bar into the dark with her and closed the door. Her laugh echoed, far worse than the Joker's.

Rachel scrambled for the bar, limbs heavy as she gripped at the torn plastic. The oats sprinkled into her hand, sticky and smelling _so good._ Shaking, she smacked the hand cradling the oats into her mouth, savouring the taste.

Her stomach twisted and amidst nearly choking on the oats Rachel wondered when she'd last eaten. It was a miracle Miranda had given her this, and water, she had given her _water._ In a dog bowl, but still.

They didn't even have a dog, had they bought a bowl specifically for this? It made her disgusted, that they would go to such lengths yet inside, somewhere deep down, she twisted in joy. They'd bought the bowl for her, they'd bought it because she required it—  _deserved_ it. Yes, she deserved it. She was entitled to it, for why would she not be?

_Useless, bitch, nothing, whore, waste of space,_ chanted in the back of her mind but she ignored it.

She ignored it until not even the wretched warm water could split the smirk that crawled over her lips at the thought. She had earned it. It was _meritat_ _(deserved)._

_Meriti mai bine._ _(You deserve better.)_ Croaked the voice. It sounded like _Mami..._

Rachel shook in distress and the smirk dropped.

 

 

Everything had grown so dark.

Her contacts stung her and made everything blurry when she opened her eyes. Not that she could tell too well, being in sheer and utter _darkness._ She couldn't take them out though, last time she did that she couldn't see _and_ she'd lost them to the floorboards' monstrous gaps.

Her water is long gone now, despite how she'd rationed it out. Dehydration pricked at her head and pulled and bit at her senses. She hadn't needed to pee in far too long despite the tears that came forth after nightmares. She knew that alone, if anything, was _bad._

She couldn't feel her knee anymore. Her bad one. It was like it was separate from her body, just lying there. Rachel had stopped trying to sit up altogether. The light-headed feelings she got hindered that — _starvation_ — nevermind the fact that the closet was too small to even sit up right in. And the dizziness it was... it was _constant_.

_Why don't they let you out?_ Is the question that ripples through her head. _Why?_

She thinks. She spends eons thinking, spends years wondering. Millenia hoping. Until, finally, she comes up with nothing.

_I don't know,_ she says back, when the question comes once more.

The closet was so small. She could barely breathe, could barely see. It was hell. But if the Croydons were hell, then this was hell's dungeons; a fate a thousand times worse.

 

 

Her last meal had been Alfred's tediously prepared dinner of spaghetti bolognese and meatballs. It had been delicious.

The very thought of it now makes her stomach cramp. Her mouth would water but dehydration pricks at her terribly.

When had she last been in here? In the closet?

It had been years. _Years_.

Back when she was ten, the Croydons had shown up at the Juvenile Detention Centre for Delinquints. They'd told her they wanted to foster her, so she'd be put into St. Mary's Home For Girls as they sorted everything out.

Rachel had yearned for a new beginning, away from the sneers of the other older ones. Sometimes the beatings haunted her dreams instead of Gotham's criminals and he didn't know what was wrose. Now that she'd tasted Alfred Pennyworth's food Juvie's food would forever taste like poison. She'd dreamt of salvation at night, she'd wanted it so badly. So, when the opportunity had arisen, she'd taken it.

_Should've researched, done something, anything_ _,_ she'd later scold herself, when the first beatings came, but within the haze of being moved out of Juvie into St. Mary's and being fostered, somewhere her brain had flown out the door. (Not that there were many.)

The Croydons were just so _nice_. Miranda smiled, treated her like the daughter she never had. Jonathan would take her on his and Thomas' walks, he would talk to her about what she liked, watch old 80s films with her, laugh and chat as if she was part of the family he had formed. Thomas had bounded up to her, grin huge on his face, eyes bright and asked her if she was familiar with Shakespeare and if so 'could you help me with my English?' and 'maybe we could have a co-op match on PUBG after?' Together they had laughed and joked. Together they had been _friends._

The Croydons had been so nice. _Too nice._

Amidst the presents and the smiles and the laughter Rachel had missed the cold looks, the hatred, the annoyance, the whispers. Rachel had missed so much crucial information, like how Miranda wanted to run for Mayor but was stuck in Wayne Enterprises. She'd failed to notice the fact that most Mayors were family people, with at least two kids if married, she had not understood that Miranda was trying to hit it big but was setting aside time to adopt her first _for a reason_. Rachel had never seen that as weird, Miranda seemed lovely so why would she not, but now she understood.

Now Rachel had enough information to fill up the gaps in their ruse.

Now Rachel knew that she'd been a PR stunt, added into the plan to make the Croydons look like a happy family. She had been brought into the equation to get Miranda a job, not because they wanted a daughter. Funny that Miranda still hadn't been elected for council yet. S'pose personality mattered more than Miranda had previously thought. Rachel enjoyed the irony of that.

When eight months had passed, they'd offered to adopt her. Said they liked her.

Rachel had agreed, feeling very warm inside.

The day later Miranda and Jonathan had shown up at St. Mary's and told her, if she was to be adopted by them, she'd change her name. Rachel, horrified at the possibility of being cast out by her only chance, —the only ones that cared, or _seemed_ to— had molded to their wills and changed her name.

At ten years old, Rachel Grayson had become Rachel Croydon.

Her hatred of the name had blossomed since then.

Half a year into her stay as a Croydon Rachel had talked back to Amanda about something silly. She'd been locked in her room without dinner. It hadn't been anything major but Rachel had guessed that maybe they just didn't want her being bad so it had went down quietly, with Miranda making her a larger breakfast to cover it the next day, happy smiles and joking voices back.

When she'd hit eleven, Jonathan had threatened her with pain to keep silent about some of Amanda Miranda's dirtier habits (alcohol). That had been her first broken bone, if small. The pain had stuck with her for months though, and it had made her fear what she had not feared before.

_Punishment._

A notable incident stood out from around that time, and thinking back on it, it had probably been the catalyst. June 11th, 2014. Thomas and her had been left home alone, Rachel had stayed in her room doing homework, while Thomas had stayed in his, shouting at the PS4 while he ragged on Battlefield.

At some point he'd lost the game and thrown the controller. It had whacked right into his shelving units and sent one of his sports trophies straight to the ground. It had broken and ten seconds later he'd barged through her door and demanded she fix it. Rachel had been writing something for an English assignment (which she'd been finding hard enough as it was, English was _not_ her first language) and had not taken well to being shouted at. In the end they'd screamed at each other and they'd fallen out. When Miranda and Jonathan had returned home it was to a tearful Thomas clutching his trophy, sitting on the first step.

Miranda had been scandalised, seeing how she saw all her son's achievements as her own in extension. Jonathan had been flummoxed. All of that had turned to anger towards her when Thomas gave his one sided sob story of how she'd trashed his room.

Despite the fact that his room was in the state he'd left it in —nothing but dirty laundry everywhere— she'd still gotten the blame. That had been her first meeting with the downstairs closet.

It had been terrifying.

Since then, the closet had been a regular punishment up until she was thirteen. She'd become shy at home, reckless outside of their boundaries but she'd kept it quiet and things had died down to only beatings and slurs. Now, at sixteen, apparently it was back again.

_("I'm sorry," she gasped, not even remembering what she was apologising for. "I won't do it ever again.")_

Rachel didn't think she could take another three years of this punishment again. She wouldn't make it. She couldn't do it. The razors would be back, she'd need more bandages, more concealer. Batgirl would rarely be seen—

Did people already think Batgirl was dead? No. They _couldn't_. What would she do? How could she regain trust? People have died, it was no question, and she'd let them die. Her people have died while she's been stuck in a closet, feeling sorry for herself and doing _nothing._

Batgirl. Batgirl had came about five years ago, when she was twelve and lonely and scared. She'd wanted to do something good for the people like her so she'd scraped together her allowance back then and she'd bought and stolen until she could make a uniform. It had been shitty, she would freely admit to only herself. But it had done her well until she could adequately steal from GCPD for her kevlar.

The woman's appearances had been sparse and few until 2016. Then they'd went off like a bullet and the vigilante's rep had went up and people had _liked_ her. Territories had been stolen, protection money was paid and with it she upgraded, with it she made good tech out of scrap rejects and she set up defenses for her neighbourhoods. Batgirl became the face for the poor, the face of good for the Bowery ones, she became the hero that stuck low to the ground and helped everyone she could. The hero that seen things through to the very end.

Rachel wished Batgirl could save her now. But she wouldn't, because she didn't deserve to be saved. Rachel had sinned, she couldn't remember what for but she had and she deserved to pay for it. She had to, Miranda would let her out once she had, right?

Miranda. Her so-called mom. Her first name was actually Amanda, but her second name was Miranda and she went by that more often to those she favoured (or who favoured her). Rachel called her Miranda because Amanda reminded her of the tv character; a woman with a mouth bigger than her breasts. It was meant as an insult but Rachel was pretty sure the woman only still allowed it because she assumed Rachel was still emotionally attached.

Was she? Emotionally attached was a strong word, stronger than _emotionally_ and _attached_ separately. Rachel wasn't sure. She hadn't known the feeling of love in years, hadn't known the blessing of friendship since Aleksandr forced his way through her walls in sophomore year. Emotional was a tricky word, an odd one. It assumed people responded and reacted to things outside of their control. It relied on people's instincts, relied on their drive to say something or feel something about everything.

Sometimes Rachel just did things. Did things which people related to emotions, things which instead of being called impulsions were called 'outlashes of emotion'. She didn't know what was better, not knowing if she felt or not knowing what she felt.

Aleksandr. He was her friend. Not one of one, nowadays like he once had been, but now one of few. He paraded about and bought her things, whispered things about his day to her, told her his secrets, all under the guise of being her boyfriend. Rachel didn't condone, nor favour this behaviour but if Alek wanted to waste his life on her she couldn't hope to argue with a stubborn Russian like him. She didn't love him, how could she?

The feeling of love was alien to her, after all.

And if Alek loved her... She could only pray it didn't get him killed.

Her loved ones always died. First her _mami (mommy)_ and _tătic_ _(daddy)_ and then the rope had went completely, taking her _unchi (uncle)_ , _văr_ _(cousin)_ and _tanti_ _(auntie)_ down with it. Maybe that was why the Croydons hadn't died yet? Maybe she had to _love_ them.

Rachel didn't think she _could_ love. Not anymore.

 

 

Miranda was walking around.

Rachel could tell because the _click, click, click_ of her heels reverberated through the thin closet door, shaking in her head. She wondered what date it was, what had gotten _the_ Amanda Croydon dressed up — but she doesn't know and can't hope to.

That is, until the closet door is unlocked.

Jonathan's wearing navy slacks. His shoes are black and polished to a gleam. They didn't match well. His arm reached in and as she stiffened, he grabbed onto her arm and tugged her out.

Rachel shook, light hurting her eyes as pins and needles raced all over everywhere. What had she done to deserve this? She was splayed out, limp on the carpet of the hallway. She couldn't mive, couldn't fell. Rachel wanted to cry, to scream and shout but she couldn't, not with her throat so tight like this.

"Do you think she's dead?" Thomas asked, toe of his shoe nudging her side. It hurt more than she was willing to admit.

"Don't touch her," Miranda hissed. A horn blared from outside, loud and irritating. "Come Thomas, let's go. Deal with her, Jonathan?"

"Of course." The door opened and then slammed shut, quick as light. The rolling wheels of suitcases flopping over the gravel drive grated on her ears. Rachel winced, head shrivelling up and pounding with her pulse.

"We're going on holiday," Jonathan explained to her, casually walking about, rustling. He must've been picking things up. Passports maybe? His keys? "The flights were all booked after we had to return to get you out of Wayne's house —which you should be _grateful_ for— and we were only just able to get another flight today."

Where they leaving her again? She needed to check the news. Needed to go out as Batgirl, get back on her streets. How long had it been?

"You've been in there for about four days, three if you go strictly by hours." Jonathan laughed. "We'll be away for six weeks, if you do _anything_ to the house in that time and we return to it being a mess, I _will_ kill you."

The horn blared again. Jonathan let out an impatient sigh.

"Go upstairs, shower for five minutes and do the housework. Your allowance has been revoked. Goodbye, _Rachel_."

That wasn't her name— _wasn't her name—_ her name was pronounced _Raykel._

_Raykel Grayson._

The suitcase trundled past. The door opened and closed with a bang. With startling fevour, Rachel realised she was alone.

She lay there, lay there longer than she would've liked, listening to the hum of the fridge and the bustling of cars — all things she'd been unable to hear in the closet.

What felt like hours later, Rachel managed to pull herself upright. She leaned against the closed closet door and hiccuped frantic breaths.

Four days wasn't too bad. Batgirl had went missing for longer. She could charge her phone, drink some soup, shower and sleep. Tomorrow she could go out as Batgirl.

All she had to do was stand up.

 


	18. Take Care to Listen, Please

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Waynes take action. It's maybe not as quick as they'd like it to be, but at least they do it the right way.

 

Barbara sat on the couch in the Den, adjacent to the one that Jason and Tim sat on. She was quite invested in her new book, so much so she couldn't remember its name, but that _investment_ didn't stop her from looking up at one of Jason's particularly loud hoots.

_Lucky he wasn't this loud when Rachel was here,_ she thought, her stomach revoulting at the very thought. Barbara knew the girl was strong, she'd taken a hit from the _Joker_ after all, but from what she'd seen she didn't take noise too well. The way she cowered from it was worrisome.

"Told ya, ya shoulda went fer the payload, Timmo!" The youngest of their pretty large —and constantly growing— family was laughing now, coming dangerously close to doing his Robin cackle. His grin was big enough to drown out the sun. "Told ya!"

"Yeah, you did," Tim looked like he'd swallowed a sour lemon, face as dark as one of Gotham's tropical storms. He blew out a breath, controller dropping into his lap as his eyes wandered. Barbara watched, making eye contact for a moment before Tim broke it, hurriedly looking away.

Barbara raised an eyebrow, deciding to watch as Jason started up a new game. The younger was obviously trying to draw the older boy into a conversation, wanting responses longer than "uh-huh" or "yeah". Barbara knew how much Jason yearned for conversation —Willis had forbade him from speaking when he was in the house— and Tim was never one to let him down, even when he was imitating Barbara's PMS-ing days. Well, _usually_ Tim was never one to let Jason down.

"Either of you seen the new Toy Story movie?" She piped up. Damian entered the room, a long strip of wool as long as his arm tossed over his shoulder. He sat down beside her, expression serene, and Barbara decided not to comment for the lone fact that she quite liked her head, _thank you._

"Toy Story 4?" Jason was quick to pick up the line, eager to speak. His eyes were locked onto the screen in front of him but his smile was for their conversation. "Ha! Wasn't so long ago people were sayin' that it wouldn't happen."

"I was not aware it was out yet," Damian added.

"It's been out a couple days now," Barbara clarified. "For the rich, of course. For the public it's coming out in late June."

"M'ybe we could go an' see it in the cinema?" Jason asked, tapping furiously at his controller. Really, it was a miracle the thing was still in one piece. Though Barbara was sure she'd heard Alfred talking about some white tape going missing from the kitchen, which looked a lot like what Jason's controller was decorated in so she was sure it had seen its own brutal injuries.

"I'm sure B could find some time off," Barbara nodded, pretending to refocus back on her book as she instead watched Timothy. The boy was staring at the Red Robin insignia on the ceiling, imitating a forlorn and lost kitten.

"It's not like he would be leaving the company undefended, Fox is more than capable." Damian said and holy shit was he knitting? Barbara decided she _also_ liked her tongue and _continued_ to say nothing.

"Careful D," Jason laughed. "People'll start thinkin' ya like 'im."

"A shame that so many would have to lose their heads," Damian joked in that serious way of his. Jason erupted in giggles and Barbara tore her eyes away from Tim's depressed gloom for a moment to savour the small smile that bloomed on Damian's lips at Jason's joy. In their line of night-time adventures it was best to take all the good memories you got the first time around, or else you had nothing but darkness in your head.

There was a reason B had kept Terry around after the first few weeks; because he could _smile._ Children always kept away the dark, and being a true family pushed it away even further. The Batman was alive from the help of his kids, and their love. And his kids were alive thanks to his training and love.

"Do you think she hates me?" Tim asked out of the blue all of a sudden. Barbara blinked in confusion. Then it clicked.

"Of course not, Tim." Barbara rushed to say in the stilted silence Jason and Damian had left behind. "You said Rachel never texts, so it can't be her. People like Rachel don't ditch friends through text."

_This_ was what he was down about. Rachel had supposedly —Barbara had seen the text messages, but they came off odd, seeing how the girl was so reserved— texted Tim a day after she'd left the house. What was said had been horrible and Tim hadn't gotten over it, seeing as he was still crushing _hard_ on the girl.

"Why do you not just call her back, Drake?" Damian scoffed. But under his tone of arrogance was real worry. "Surely if all was well she would pick up."

"But she hasn't," Tim said, voice ever so quiet. He looked down at his hands, scrunched up in his lap. His frown was a mile long. "I just go to the voice machine everytime and— I don't know what to do."

Barbara shared a look with a stern Damian, and then a concerned, out of his depth Jason and made a decision. "Alright," she said, standing up. Her book was set on the coffee table, never to be touched again. "Family meeting in five, in here. Scatter and find everyone you two, Tim you stay here."

"Alrigh'," Jason paused his game and jumped off the couch, challenging Damian to a race on the way to the door.

 

 

It was a rare day when the entirety of the Wayne Family was in the same house. Today, it seemed, was one of those days.

Everyone had gathered in the Den: Steph and Cass on the loveseat (pulled into the couch-made square in the center of the room); Duke had taken the third couch opposite Barbara and Damian's couch with Bruce, Ace by his feet and Titus had joined them, by Damian's feet, with Alfred the Cat hanging off Terry's shoulder from where he sat inbetween Barbara and Damian. By the time the three minute mark had passed, the entire Gotham-based Clan had assembled, Batman's training having drilled them to arrive early to all meetings.

Barbara was actually quite proud of everyone for being able to drop everything so quickly and show up. Although that was probably due to the fact that when any FM's _did_ happen, they were important.

Their last one had been on whether or not to accept Kate Kane as Huntress back when she was on their territory. And look where it had gotten them — a new member and a wider reach.

"Not that I don't love our usual procedure of having a three hour long meeting, but could we make this one quicker than the last?" Stephanie asked, pouting. "I have a date with the salon at three and it's one pm right now."

"You'll be fine, I own that salon," Bruce grunted.

Steph smirked, "Still. I enjoy keeping my appointments on time."

"Y'just enjoy talkin' ta the hot boy that part-times on Saturdays, Stephy." Duke laughed.

" _Stephy,"_ Steph shivered at the nickname. "Oh gosh. I think I'm gonna have nightmares."

"You've went up against Professor Pyg on his bad days, and Joker on his worst. You'll be fine, Brown." Damian said. "Now, if you would, Gordon."

"I called this meeting to dicuss one person: Rachel Croydon." Barbara said, sending out a glare to silence the sudden choking sounds coming from Stephanie.

"Is this about Tim's distress at recieving those texts?" Cass asked.

"It is, but I'd also like to breach another matter." Barbara started.

Duke interrupted, "Like the fact the kid gets on like a scared kitten?"

Barbara swallowed, "Yes."

"Let's focuss on the texts, first." Bruce cleared his throat, eyes going soft as he turned to look at Tim. "Tim could you give us a recount?"

"Um, sure." Tim fumbled for words. "Well, I woke up two days ago, on Wednesday, and seen Rachel had texted me." He broke off to take a deep breath. "Rachel had always called me before, saying she liked hearing people's voices."

Jason whistled in suggestion, interrupting Tim. When everyones eyes were on him, he flushed. "Sorry, Timmo. Go on."

Tim continued, "I read the texts and— do you want to see them?"

"Isn't your phone charging?" Terry asked.

"Yeah, but I could go get it—"

"Don't worry, I'll get them." Barbara pulled her phone from out of her pocket and began the quick process of hacking Tim's phone messages. "Here we are," she said a minute later, after Tim had expressed his confusion at the messages, explaining his responce. "Who wants to read them?"

"I shall," Damian declared, leaving no room for argument. He waited for Barbara to hand him her phone before clearing his throat.

"13th of June, from _Rachel Croydon_ double heart."

"Damian!" Tim went bright red.

"Was I not meant to read that aloud?" Damian asked, but went on without a response. "She has said, _'Don't ever text me again, Wayne brat.'_ Despite there being no previous texts, how amusing."

"We don't need a running commentary, Damian." Terry whacked his arm. "Just read them."

"Very well, Terrance." Damian said, not at all scolded. "She continues, _'You're nothing more than one of Wayne's fuckboys. I don't ever want to see you again.'_ "

"Yo, these are from that quiet kid that was scared to dish hersel' out some salad?" Duke asked. Everyone's expressions were dark. No one appreciated one of their own being called a... a _fucktoy._ "Are we sure we've got the right Rachel?"

Something didn't sit right here. Barbara agreed with Duke — there was no way this was _Rachel._

"It appears so," Damian said. His eyebrows were drawn tight, his posture rigid. Barbara knew he liked Rachel, just like her, and this just seemed so _other worldly._ Quite honestly, it was disorienting. "Shall I go on?"

" _Sí,"_ Jason nodded. No one mentioned his language slip because that would mean speaking.

"Drake asked her what happened," Damian said. "And she has responded with, _'I don't ever want to talk to you again. Mom—'_ "

Damian stopped mid-sentence.

"Damian?" B asked. Barbara looked at Damian, her gaze rising from where she'd taken to staring at one of the beanbags. She found him frowning mightily at the phone's screen. "What is it?"

"Croydon and I talked on her third day," the nineteen year old said. His tone was low. "Never once did she call Amanda _'mom'_. It was always Miranda, not even 'Mother'."

The silence let that all sink in. Barbara's eyes widened of their own violition.

"You don't think it was her that sent them." Here it was: evidence. Rachel wasn't cruel, but maybe Amanda _was._

"Either that or she was unable to dictate the messages, which I doubt." Damian said which was as good a confirmation as they were ever going to get. "Add to the fact she goes extremely out of character by saying, _'Mom says to tell you to fuck off_ _but I won't because I'm nice like that. What I will tell you though is that you're nothing more than a leeching dickhead.'_ "

"You guys thinking what I'm thinking?" Stephanie said, sounding very unhappy.

They all looked to Bruce. The man sat quietly, fingers steepled on his lap, face shadowed by his hair from the way he'd tilted his head down. Everyone waited for his opinion.

"Going from what she let slip to Barbara at four in the morning—"

"What?"

"The reluctance to accept things," Stephanie's frown grew. "The malnourishment and thinness," Damian's hands squeezed into fists. "The unease at being offered food," Jason closed his eyes. "Her hesitance to offer her opinion to a worrisome point," Duke shook his head. "Her body language," Cassandra rubbed at her eyes. "And the younger mental age," Bruce stalled.

He sat up straight. "I think we've got a case of child abuse on our hands."

Barbara felt sick.

"What do we do?" Terry whispered in the quiet.

"I'll get the Commissioner on the line," Damian offered immediately.

"The Croydons are on holiday again, this time for six weeks, but maybe it'll be like last time."

"Last time?" Jason asked, eyes wide as he blinked.

Bruce's expression siezed up, going stone cold. "They left her alone."

"Neglect is child abuse too," someone whispered.

Barbara felt so sad. Why was it always the free ones? The happy ones that should be innocent that were not? Why was the world so unfair?

"You realise it'll take the police a few days to get a warrant to enter the property," Damian said. "A house call based on child abuse is a serious thing, the poilce shy away from them now as the rich have taken to suing. It could be Monday by the time they search the place."

"They're leaving on Sunday," Bruce said. "I'll call him too, advise him to get it by then."

Jason shifted awkwardly. "Dismissed?"

Barbara shared a look with Bruce, and then Damian. Terry was petting Titus, who'd curled up in his lap. Stephanie looked pale, Cass looked solemn. Tim had his face in his hands and Jason looked ready to bolt. Child abuse was a nasty thing, something none of them liked.

"Could we get custody of her after this, B?"

Bruce didn't even look up. "I was going to anyway."

Damn their corrupt police force. Barbara wanted to hug the poor little girl and she wanted to hug her _now._

"Alright," Barbara stood, feeling her legs wobble. She swallowed. "Family Meeting dismissed."

 


	19. Seeing a Bat is a Grace only for the Wicked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She hits the streets with a little less anger and a lot more pain. Batgirl is back, and she's not exactly better than ever but it's good enough.

 

"Shouldn't be this bad," Rachel huffed as she stood under the cold water, rinsing herself down. "Only four days... S'been worse."

Her legs were numb. Her fingers shook. Her head pounded even after three paracetamol. Her bladder was fucked up. She was sore. Her shoulders were too tense. Her hips ached. Her back was stiff. The bandges had very nearly not come off her bicep. She was immensely lucky the wound wasn't infected, red and sore as it was. She was so tired it wasn't even funny.

Rachel'd been in the closet for four days. She'd taken worse for longer. Yet she was worse off than she had been in a long time.

"Maybe 'cuz it was sudden," she murmured, dropping the bath plug into the hole before slamming off the shower and turning the hot water tap. Jonathan had told her to shower for five minutes and technically she wasn't breaking any rules. The shower had been used for less than two minutes. The bath, on the other hand, would be filled for hours. "Haven't been in there for years. Was a shock to the system."

Her legs shivered as she went to sit, sending her toppling down into the quickly growing body of water. Her back screamed in protest as it slammed against the base of the bath and she spasmed, eyes snapping shut as her arms shot out, hands groping for purchase. She found it in the form of the bath's edges and it took her three strained attempts before she was no longer at risk of drowning. The bathroom walls echoed her pained whimpers. There would be bruises, she was sure.

Rachel spluttered, spitting out scalding hot water as she managed to lie against the slant of the bath side. The cold tap was twisted on a few moments later, when she'd regained control of her limbs. It was a good thing Miranda was lazy and had forced Jonathan into getting someone to install a water-resistant tv into the Bathroom corner. Standing felt near impossible for the immediate foreseeable future.

After securing the buttons, it was turned on. The news channel was easily found.

_"—police are urging for any witnesses to step forward._ _"_ The Reporter was saying. The topic changed and he shuffled his stack of papers, glasses glinting in the overhead lighting system. _"On that note, the GCPD urge you to stay indoors tonight, with crime on a steady rise between twentieth and sixty-fifth street. If night-time travel is completely necessary they advise to tell someone where you're going and to be aware of your surroundings at all times."_

Rachel sighed, tipping half of Miranda's bubble bath lotion into the bath. She had six weeks to get her more. It stated it was calming, which she could argue she needed, as it was obvious Batgirl was going to be run ragged for the next week. She'd disappeared for four days— no, she'd spent five days at the Waynes'; nine days— and crime had gotten worse. She closed her eyes, sinking into the bubbles. They tickled at her nose.

A sneeze came out of nowhere, making the bubbles rear up like a precipitous mountainside. She giggled but in the steamy bathroom it sounded sad and distorted.

God knows what would happen if Batgirl were to vanish permanently. The estimated deathcount alone made her shiver. She wasn't even a Clan member, yet half of the city had erupted in chaos at losing the whisper of her wrath.

_"Over to Cartagena Jerril who's currently in Blüdhaven."_

_"Thank you, Scott. Tonight I'm over in our sister city, Blüdhaven, at the news of a new vigilante."_

Rachel peeled open her eyes. _What?_

_"She appears to be going by the name of Manhunter, and has so far shown no resistance towards BCPD. Commissioner de Lanchas stated that although no hostility has been displayed, they 'will not hesitate to protect Blüdhaven from a possible threat'. Confirmation on if Manhunter is working with Batman Inc. is yet to be received but—"_

Then the vigilante wasn't one of Wayne's. He had no more children to spare, she knew. And if Batman Incorporated hadn't owned up to leasing out a new demon then this 'Manhunter' mustn't be one of theirs. Rachel scowled and jumped to the state news. She didn't want to hear Jerril blab on about facts no one knew were true or not.

_"Today another shooting occured in—"_

Rachel changed the channel. She didn't want to hear about more death.

She tried the international news.

_"Paris' Nightrunner has officially been confirmed as one of Batman Incorporated's persons. The 'Batman of France' has recently been spotted upon the Eiffel Tower. With multiple footage copies showing them jumping down and stopping muggings all over the City_ _the people are rejoicing at having a new hero."_

Nightrunner. She'd never heard of him.

Rachel slapped the tv buttons, uncaring of the bubbles that sloshed over them. As the channel changed, she wondered when Miranda had thought it would be a good idea to put a glass corner table beside the bath. It was a miracle Thomas hadn't broken it yet.

Sourly, she frowned. They would probably find a reason to blame her anyway if it got broken.

_"Tragically we're falling like the arrows,"_ came from the tv. Rachel found her eyes focusing on it by themselves. Seemed she'd turned on the music channel. _"You will hear our voices echo."_

It sounded like the voice that had blared out of Steph's phone a while ago — god, it felt like _years_ ago. The reminder put a bad feeling in her stomach, making her think back on her phone. The moment it was charged up from zero percent she could text Tim, assure herself nothing had happened while assuring him she wasn't dead or something.

Not that he'd care, but still.

_"We are the hearts_

_And the future runs through our bones_

_We are the hearts."_

With a tad more care than she had before, she changed the channel again. This time she checked the guide, clicking on some music channel that looked half-decent.

_"It's time to strap our boots on, this is the perfect day to die."_ Clapped Otherwise's Soldiers. _"Wipe the blood out of our eyes."_

_"I_ _n this life, there's no surrender_ _,"_ Rachel added, before sinking back under the bubbles. On a second thought, she grabbed the shampoo and pulled it down with her.

_"We are the ones who will never be broken."_

 

 

Puttering about, making soup, took more energy than she'd previously thought it would. The cupboard was sparse but there were cans; chicken soup that looked more than a few years old, tomato sauce with sardines, peaches and another chicken soup that looked newer.

Rachel chose the newer looking one after sparing the other an unsure glance.

The drawer that housed the saucepans stuck on its wheels and it took a good few tugs to unstick itself. By which point, Rachel had nearly buckled her right leg and her shoulders were protesting against excessive movement. In the end, she retrieved the pan and had it dumped on the cooker by the time the clock was showing nine AM.

She reckoned the Croydons had left at around six in the morning. It had been half past when she'd made it up the stairs and she'd lazed in the bath, both immoblie and wrecked, for a good few hours.

Batgirl could be out by ten, if she was quick.

Standing over the pot of soup as it simmered was enjoyable, she found. Poking it with the spoon was even more fun and sitting on the counertop made her feel a little more rebellious.

The Croydons had cleaned up, minorly, before they'd left. Miranda and Jonathan's bedroom was locked, Thomas' had so much dirty laundry in it his was unaccessable. Hers was a bit dusty, with a few crooked blinds across the window that hadn't been crooked before.

There she was, nursing a warm bowl of chicken soup, when she realised the Croydons had came on a Tuesday. Surely that hadn't been by chance.

She'd been mentally joking about Tuesday being her death day for a while now. Maybe this time, someone had heard.

Did death stand for something else? Not for the passing of life — but the turning of events, the stopping of something. Could it stand for a new chapter, as people called it? A new flavour in a segment of life?

On Tuesday, the Croydons had came back and taken her from the Waynes.

She didn't know how she felt about that.

There was anger — anger at them for returning and ripping her away from people who seemed to care. Anger because what did they have that made them above her? What was their right to dictate where she breathed?

Pain — her body wallowed in it, yet so did her mind. It was betrayal. She'd stupidly thought she could be trusted, no. She'd _thought_ she was trusted, apparently not. Rachel'd thought they trusted her to make _her own_ decisions, but at the hint of her actions the Croydons had fled to Gotham once more to yell and hit and _hurt_.

They'd dragged her away from Tim and Damian and Barbara and Stephanie. They'd dragged her away from people who smiled at her without a cruel underlying reason. Dragged her away from what had felt like her first sip of _freedom_ in years.

Dragged her away out of spite, when they heard tell of her being _happy._

Maybe...

Maybe she'd been misidentifying the monster for too long. It had always been herself, _Rachel Croydon the monster, the freak,_ but maybe—

What if the monster was the Croydons? _Amanda, Jonathan and Thomas Croydon._ The people who beat her, laughed and mocked when she fell, told her she couldn't do something because it would set them off their tidal wave of attention. The people who promised her joy and freedom and love and gave her nothing, and when she asked for it smirked and threw slurs like the clouds released rain.

_Acest lucru sună foarte mult ca abuzul de copii, (This sounds a lot like child abuse),_ her _Tătic'_ _s_ voice confronted.

She nearly dropped the bowl she was clutching.

 

 

Her bed was cold as she sat on it, bent over to pull her boots up. They were loose, as they usually were before she activated the suit and tightened them automatically with its electrostatic currents. She enjoyed the red glow of her suit's seams, so she often left it to last — and not only because that meant it was easier to get her suit on.

With the faint murmur of, _"Wipe the blood out of our eyes,"_ she pulled her cowl up and let everything sink in. Her lenses whirred frantically, all sorts of imput coming up on them in an excited manner. It seemed her suit was just as happy to see her as she was to see it.

The police scanner popped on in her ears, along with her comm which was hacked onto a _lot_ of frequencies. Gotham was quieter at day than it was at night, the nightlife speeding things up as per usual.

She was sticking to her schedule so she'd be out by her parts by ten. It was nine thirty six currently.

_"Got a 10-2 on Oakstow,"_ the PS coughed. _"Assistance requested, over."_

_"Copy, assistance secured. ETA two minutes, over."_

Oakstow was near the Bowery, but tipped just far enough south that most percieved it as part of Higher Gotham. Gotham was split up into three sections —technically two, depending how you looked at it.

There was Lower Gotham, north of twenty-eighth street, going up all the way to the tip of the island. It included the Bowery, the neighbourhoods and shops around it, the Shipping and part of the Warehouse District, as well as Dead End, the neighbourhoods around there, the Narrows and officially Arkham Asylum, in that order. Amusement Mile bordered it, coming around the Warehouse District that was Higher Gotham's from where it started just off from the Higher owned harbor and docking bay.

Higher Gotham was mostly Main Gotham. Main Gotham was the shopping prefecture, from the shops on first to twentieth, ranging from your rich shops on first to tenth, with the poorer shops afterwards. The shopping mall was on a block that bordered both rich and poor, and was called Sinloa Street. The Office section, a few blocks away from China Town, took up a lot of the place, with the well to do neighbourhoods in the southeast and the rich mansions just east of them, bordering the Ocean, home to one of the bridges into the country part of Gotham.

The rest of the city, including China Town to the west, the Highlander Bridge between Delaware's Metropolis' highway and New Jersey's Route that ran just past Gotham to the north west, and the lower south of Gotham's island were all claimed by Higher Gotham.

Although the island was split. Twice, actually. Up north once for the mass that Arkham and the Narrows sat upon, and once more for the countryside part of Higher. One bridge connected Lower to the Narrows —although it was majorly collapsed, as it had been for the past fifteen years— whilst three connected the main island half of Gotham to the Higher's country. The Wayne Manor was in the country bit, hence the amount of land they held. On a sidenote though, they did have an awful lot of buildings in Main Gotham, with Wayne Tech, Wayne Tower and the main office building residing in the busy part of the City. Rachel was pretty sure they also had a penthouse, but she wasn't too sure.

Batgirl had found Gotham was beautiful at certain vantage points. Not that she wasn't normally beautiful. But in specific places, at special angles, she was something to behold.

Wayne Tower's gargoyles were holy, guarding their city. Batgirl didn't up there often, as they sat too far into Higher Gotham —the Clan's territory— whereas she took to Lower. When she did make it up there, usualy after a rough night, she took care to wave to the Bat's cameras while keeping her hood up. The Tower's views were amazing, being up so high allowing her the glee of sitting atop a gargoyle's head. She enjoyed the dots of the lights scattered everywhere, suddenly obvious so high up.

Another nice destination was the small cathedral near Hikton Road, deep into Dead End's blocks. The cathedral was far from abandoned but the Sexton was a gentle man, in the midst of going deaf, and he didn't mind her sitting on the roof.

She wanted to check out the Dam at some point, but it was so deep into the countryside of Gotham —people tended to simply call the sheer grass and forest area the Country— that the time to get there hadn't been allocated. Add to the fact it would probably take about three hours on foot, if she started out at Wayne's Manor (which was pretty close to the middle of Country). In the end, she'd put it off, paranoid of threats hitting her territories when she was gone.

Batgirl would get out there eventually. She could imagine herself out there, swinging around the old, abandoned water facilities out there. Sitting on the Dam's forty foot walls, staring out at the forestry, and the bare gleam of light that would worm it's way past the greenery. Rachel'd bet her life there would be nothing more beautiful, to her at least.

She stood, sliding her cape out of the shoulder caps to let it unfurl down her back. The jagged edges wavered against the floor, licking at the dust that had amassed. Tapping her red bat symbol, her suit tightened - activating. The walls around her shone red in the darkened room, dark even with the sun beaming through the smog outside her window. She pulled the belt firmer around her waist, attaching a red thigh strap for her emergency switch blade. It had came in handy more than once, so it had went one night from a temporary edition to a permanent one.

Rachel eased her window up, flicking a small —near invisible— switch on the side of the frame to activate her security systems. It was white and just barely jutted out from the paint layer, hence why Amanda hadn't yet noticed it. It had been put in after she'd realised there was the threat of others following her, or someone —or _some_ _thing_ — going in through her window before she returned to the house.

Basically, her paranoia had installed it.

She pulled her cowl up, marvelling at the empty road before her. Her phone was in her belt, Tim could wait until she was out. The hood came next, black like her kevlar and waterproof. It kept the holographic hair—it was a clever illusion she'd made a while back, to protect her identity that bit more— clean and gave her less of a hard time when she was servicing everything. No pesky water to fry any important circuits.

It kinda made her feel mysterious too. She'd wore it one night when the holograph had glitched, she'd kept it since.

Being a vigilante was a learning process. Batgirl was still, slowly learning.

She lept out onto the thin windowsill, knowing fully well that there were no cameras along this road for an entire block. Her common route was to go behind, back onto Solvowes Alley and circle around to wherever she needed to go, as the entire area was a dark zone, and popular for muggings. Deciding to keep to the classics, she did her norm and flipped onto the roof, watching her window slide down quietly. Two minutes later she was sitting on a dumpster in Solvowes, phone out in the silence that came with only a few rats around. The red of her lenses cast the alley into a cruel glow, her suit making a gentle hum in the quiet.

Quickly, her phone booted up. It flashed the Apple logo before opening her up to her home page. She tapped on Messages after a second, deciding to simply look up his name to send him what would be her first text to him.

Rachel disliked texts. They didn't carry emotion properly, so she tended to avoid them. This time was a special occassion though, and she didn't feel much like talking.

Unurprisingly, his name was the first one, Alek second, on her history log. Surprisingly, a text had already been sent a couple days ago. Tim had already seen something, the little text blurb clear as day. Batgirl frowned, she had _never_ texted Tim.

 

**13.06.19**

 

**Me**

_13:31pm_

_Don't ever text me again_ _, Wayne brat._ _I fucking hate you, you and your petty family. You're nothing more than one of Wayne's fuckboys. I don't ever want to see you again._

 

Batgirl choked, panic rising up her throat like vomit. Had Amanda done this? Tim had responded.

 

**Tim W.**

_13:33pm_

_What? Rachel what happened?_

 

**Me**

_13:33pm_

_I don't ever want to talk to you again. Mom says to tell you to fuck off but I won't_ _because I'm nice like that. What I will tell you though is that you're nothing more than a leeching dickhead._  
  


Batgirl shook so hard the phone rattled between her loose grip. It hit off her gauntlets —slipping from side to side— but she couldn't feel it, couldn't feel the cold of the dumpster under her, couldn't feel the hood over her head, couldn't smell the smog anymore. Her heart thumped in her chest so loud her eyes watered.

Amanda had done this. She'd tried to ruin her and Tim's friendship —if that was what people called it. What if she _had_ _?_

Tim hadn't responded to the last text.

She didn't even call Amanda _mom_ for god's sake!

Angry and scared, her fingers flew over the keyboard. She tapped send with a shaking hand. Her message popped up a second later.

 

**16.06.19**

 

**Me**

_9:56am_

_i_ _m so sorry tim. amanda took my phone i didnt think shed text you. im sorry if it hurt you._ _i hope this doesnt change anything. im sorry tim._

 

It was lacking in the punctuation department, but Rachel had never used punctuation properly. Hopefully it would get across the change in person.

Batgirl sat on the dumpster, completely still as she waited for a response.

There wasn't one. Her phone stayed silent in her hands.

 

**Me**

_10:01am_

_ti_ _m? pls respond_ _. im sorry if youre mad, i get it but it wasnt me. i dont know why amanda did this but she did. please tim i would never hurt you. please answer._

 

She tried again, breath coming short. If she'd lost Tim to this —to _Amanda—_ she didn't know what she would do.

 

**Me**

_10:03am_

_im so sorry tim. im so sorry that this has hurt you. im sorry you think it was me. im sorry for being a bad friend. im sorry if im not your friend. im sorry that this happened. i apologize because i dont know what else to say and im sorry for that too._

 

Again, Tim didn't respond.

She tried calling him. After a few minutes it went straight to voicemail.

"Tim," she said and ran out of things to say. Her voice broke. "I'm so, so sorry. Please just pick up, text me, anything. This— it _wasn't me,_ please believe me."

She hung up, feeling useless.

_One more,_ she thought. _If Tim won't pick up then he won't. He obviously doesn't want to listen to my excuses._

 

**Me**

_10:05am_

_its okay. i get it. ill stop nagging you now tim. sorry._

 

Taking a deep breath, Batgirl stood. The dumpster groaned quietly under the strain of the jump she did to get to her feet. A second later her grapple was out and she was flying like her family no longer could.

She twirled over alleyways, span around gaps in rooftiles, flew over roads and streets and intersections until she got to a popular destination for information.

It was a seedy casino, on forty-fourth street. Owned and run by a man, Marland Brookes. He was nice enough, often chipping her a coin to place a bet on the next horse race for the bookie part of his establishment. The man was always claiming if there was a dark horse, she'd get it. She never had won anything but if she did, it would be sent to a trusted charity. Probably one for homeless people.

Everyone knew Gotham had more than her fair share of street blankets.

Without hesitance she dropped into the alley behind the casino and jumped through an unlocked window.

"Should lock yer windows, Marley," she drawled, strolling leisurely into the main casino room. It was dimly lit, tables splattered everywhere just like the liqour split over the marble bartop. "Wha' hap'n'd 'ere?"

Marland looked up from brushing up the sparkling glass by the bar-side highchairs. He looked panicked for all of two seconds, then the owner and manager recognised her. After deflating like a balloon he waved her over.

Batgirl spared the place a glance as she strode over. Everything else was in place from the shady diner couches lining the far wall, by the front door, to the overhanging half-bowl lights that occassionally swung when someone upstairs got a little rowdy. The only oddities were the scattered glass, the fact that the bartender —Big Joe— looked scared and that the bouncer was standing beside Marland, picking at the bartop with the 'tender. Glass crackled underfoot and suddenly she found herself grateful for the excessive padding and steel toe in her boots as she kicked it out of the way.

"Batgirl," the man drawled, smooth hispanic accent putting her at ease even with the frantic speed of his speech. "How glad we are to see you."

"Wha' happen'd?" She asked again, frown firm on her red lips. Her fists tightened at her side as she seen Big Joe and Loel share a look. Whatever it was, she doubted it was good.

Things never were when they went wrong in Gotham.

"Black Mask," Marland shook his head. This was nothing new — having a casino or bar raided by a gang — but usually they deemed Roundtree too far into the middle to approach. That and she was protected by Batgirl.

Seemed her disappearance had brought more strife than she'd thought. It wasn't everyday someone raided a vigilante's territory specifically.

"He came in late last night," Marland continued. "Demanded entry, threatened Loel and then trashed the place when a drunk bumped into him."

"Had three big'uns, two small'uns," Loel, the bouncer, said. He was a gruff man, about 240 pounds, in his thirties. Batgirl knew by the look of him, his brown hair curling, that he was dishevelled, if alert. "Stormed right in, took the place ov'r."

"Loel tried to stop them," Big Joe, the bartender, commended as Marland patted Loel's bicep. Batgirl watched the man do it, watching how he didn't even bother to reach for his shoulder. Marland was a short man, at 5'3. Loel was 6'4.

Almost as tall as Damian.

"They trash the place an' leave?" She grunted.

_"_ _Sí,_ _"_ Marland sniffed and this time it was Loel patting his head in his gruff way of reassurance. "Took off with the register and scared away most of our patrons."

That explained why the Roundtree was so empty. Usually it was busy, no matter the time. Gambling was a day-long habit, after all. If not life-long.

"They spit out anythin' 'bout where they'd go hunker down?" Batgirl bent over and picked up a large piece of glass by her boot, throwing it into the trashcan beside Marland.

"Mask said somethin' of the Shippin' Dis." Big Joe offered. "Tha' place is big, though. How ya gonna find him?"

"There's cameras all 'bout up there," she responded, turning on her heel and admiring the crunch of glass as she did so.

"You are sure you don't want a drink, Batgirl?" Marland questioned in the low buzz of music from the speakers as she walked away.

"'M fine, Mar. Ya focus on gettin' back up an' runnin'. No free drinks fer a bit, yeah?"

"Of course, Batgirl." Marland huffed out a chuckle, returning to his sweeping.

"G'luck," Loel called after her. She waved in thanks.

She wouldn't need it anyway.

 


	20. The Hypnotist of Heroes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She's only back and already she's getting the short end of the stick.

 

**Warehouse** **District, far East of Docks.**

_**10:27am.** _

 

Batgirl sat hunched in the rafters. The warehouse was new, spacious and filled to the brim with illegal shipping containers. In the far middle, to her left, sat a rickety tv on a wooden crate with three men gathered around it, sitting on wooden boxes. Even from the fifty-odd feet above them, Batgirl could clearly hear their gossip, and the tv's clamour.

She'd been lucky. The cameras had caught Mask and his men stomping right up to a warehouse and slipping through a picklocked door. All Batgirl had needed to do was come up after them, pop through a loose roof panel and the game was on. Now sitting up on a roof stabilizer, she had time to kill.

With time going slow, the news had been slow, too. With nothing majorly big going down people had only mentioned her disappearance in passing. When she'd scoured through the police and Bat records for anything on Black Mask's current intentions she'd been handed it on a silver platter.

He was back into dealing weapons. Apparently he'd correctly decided drugs were worth shit when you dealed in the poor side of town.

So here she was, camping out just east of the Bowery in the Old Shipping area of the Warehouse District. Not to be confused with the Shipping District. The OS was just south of the lick of land that was Amusement Mile and a few clicks away from the Docks, surrounded entirely by Lower Gotham. She felt at home here, her worries eased by the scum to her left and right. This bust would be easy. She could close up quick, maybe even squeeze in a visit to the cathedral, after she wrapped up Mask.

"Anything good on, John?" One of the men asked, beer bottles clinking between them. They were all tipsy stage drunk, and Batgirl had no intentions of stopping them. She was here to wait for their boss, Black Mask, to show up. As soon as he did, her plan would spring into place.

"Nah, the usual." Batgirl swung her legs back and forth, listening. "Oh, the news."

"Put it on," the gruffer of the three ordered. Most likely the leader, the higher ranking, of the three. "And turn it up."

_"Matt Hagen, the criminal known as Clayface, was found dead early this morning,"_ the news anchor announced as soon as the button was hit to switch the channel. Batgirl raised an eyebrow under her cowl. _"He was found dead, in his Bowery apartment, covered in what the GCPD has claimed was 'an odd protoplasmic substance'. They are currently calling for any and all witnesses who may have any information to step forward—"_

"The bastard Clayface is dead," one of the men chuckled, head tipping back as he knocked back the rest of his beer. "Good riddance."

"I can drink to that," the one closest to the tv nodded enthusiastically.

"How are you, Batgirl?" A voice whispered in her ear. Her neck hairs stood on edge as a frail hand caught her wrist, batarang shivering in her fingers. Her arm wouldn't work, why couldn't she punch the batarang into his face? What— "Now, now, we can't have that, now can we?"

Batgirl tried to turn around, to see just who the hell had snuck up on her, when something jabbed into the back of her neck. She bit back the cry of pain, feeling the world dim and swirl. It went bleak, then grey and white.

"Jump on down there, girl." The voice said, male but with an odd lilt. He almost sounded angelic and Batgirl's limbs moved to comply with his command. "Go and tell them what you were doing."

She did. Batgirl stood before the three men and told them what she'd been doing, and at the angelic man's prompting, told them her entire plan of taking out Black Mask. They chuckled, and blackness swamped her.

 

 

**Wayne Tower, Middle of Gotham City.**

_**10:42pm.** _

 

"Batgirl’s been missing for a while," Nightwing noted. "She usually doesn't go down under for this long."

Stephanie was just thankful she didn't have to slave herself back to bed tonight to wake up at seven to get to school. The advantages of prolonged easter holidays. Turns out her school really wasn't equipped to deal with roof collapse in a few weeks and Health and Safety were keeping it shut tight until they got their act together. It was technically going to be summer in a week anyway, so Steph was enjoying life to the full.

"So what?" She shrugged. What Batgirl did was none of her concern. "You keeping tabs."

"B is," Terry offered, lazing on the cornice of Wayne Tower. They were waiting for the rest of the Clan to rendezvous so that they could get a move on with the Black Mask problem. It was in the Bowery section, which was Batgirl's quadrant, and usually these things only circulated to them _after_ she'd dealt with them. Maybe that was why they were on the job, Batman had been made aware of (he'd probably realised it himself) Batgirl being missing and he'd decided to deal with the problems she'd left behind. Intentionally or not.

"I'm no stalker," Terry grinned. He winked at her, red domino lenses glowing in the dark. "I think Cardinal is, though."

"Oh, who's he stalkin'?" Jason smirked, swinging up in his suit. If Robin was here, Batman shouldn't be too far behind.

"No one," Damian scowled from behind Steph, the crunch of his boots alerting her to his presence before his voice. "And I keep telling you, it's Night's Cardinal."

"Should've called yourself Dark Cardinal," Cass offered, faceless mask boring into Steph's soul in a way that didn't really affect her anymore. Batman arrived, Tim hot on his heels. Red Robin suited the two overlapping belts on his chest. Timbo had made the right decision when he'd said he wanted something fresh.

"That's a good name," Tim nodded. "Dark Cardinal. Way better than—"

Damian looked ready to stab Tim but Barbara's voice filtered over the comms. // **Well, ladies and gentlemen, I'm your host, Oracle. Today's goal is attempting to not kill any of our own.** \\\

"While murdering some of BM's men," Steph happily chimed in. "Don't forget that bit."

// **I was gonna say that,** \\\ Duke whined animatedly. // **Sketcher's gotta have an introduction line too!** \\\

"This is no movie, Sketcher." Damian sneered. "Fear not, we are more than aware of your... persona."

// **My persona, woah, hold up there Nighty, I think—** \\\

Their wrist computers binged, cutting him off. The 3D holo displays shot up, bringing up live CCTV footage. There was a van reversing into Mask's chosen warehouse, no doubt filled to the brim with stolen weapons.

Duke was instantly serious. // **Seems Mask's men are a bit ahead of schedule. Y'all wanna go check it out?** \\\

"Let's go," Bruce growled. "Split into Patrol Squads."

There were three Patrol Squads: A, B and C.

Batman and Robin were A.

Nightwing, Spoiler and Black Bat were B.

Cardinal, Huntress (when Kate was in town) and Red Robin were C.

Oracle and Sketcher were their universal comm people, they were in no specific Squad but O tended to favour B.

"Everybody heard the Boss-man!" Steph cackled. "Up an' att'em!"

 

 

**Warehouse District, far East of Docks. Warehouse opposite Black Mask's hideout.**

_**10:54pm.** _

 

Dark Cardin— _Night's_ Cardinal, (he was spending too long around his meddling family) peered down at the warehouse. It held the familiar traits of a Bats' entry, from everything from the unscrewed roof panel to the bug-disguised camera posted by the front shutter.

// **It appears as if Batgirl has already been here,** \\\ he radioed in. Those cameras weren't theirs, he knew. Cardinal checked all Bat-operated cameras before he went to bed, even ones down in Metropolis and Star City, this was not a view he was familiar with. // **Where did you say those recent sightings of her were, Father?** \\\

Batman grunted. // **Oracle's cams picked her up fourteen days ago, down by 36th. Public sightings put her by the Bowery eleven days ago, ten fifty-two PM.** \\\

// **Think she's gone down round here, Bats?** \\\ Robin questioned. Cardinal narrowed his eyes, activating his infra-red lenses on the cowl. Batgirl had not been sighted for eleven days, which was unusual in and of itself. Of all of them, she enjoyed dropping down onto the streets the most and for her not to have been seen for more than an entire week was alarming—

He squinted at a hanging figure, seemingly floating in the middle of the warehouse. Their signature showed them upside down, arms merging with the blob that was their body, their legs clasped together. The men, a good twelve or so, were gathered around them. There was likely a rope, holding them up, perhaps chains.

// **It appears we have a hostage,** \\\ Cardinal interrupted some of his sibling's mindless banter. Nightwing immediately shut up, not that Cardinal had been listening. He'd mastered the skill of tuneing out his siblings' banter a while ago. // **The goons appear to be congregating around them. Action proceeding?** \\\

// **Take immediate action,** \\\ Batman said, three rooftops over. Robin was the only indication of any life being there at all, the yellow of his cape standing out amidst the black of the night. // **Move in. Avoid all damage to the hostage.** \\\

Night's Cardinal nodded, looking to a determined Red Robin, before firing his grapple. The roof groaned softly, tin despite the warehouse's recent construction. Red rolled up next to him but Cardinal spared him no heed, gauntleted hands already pulling at the loose roof panel.

They peeked their heads through before lowering themselves down onto a stabilizer. It was dark, the shipping containers —each one boasting a different name— all piled up on each other. The containers sat around the edges, a clear path for a truck in the middle, where in the actual middle, beside a forgotten tv sitting on a crate, twelve men stood gathered in a circle, around a chain-held, upside down Batgirl. Cardinal instantly recognised the two men standing in front of her, seemingly interrogating her; Black Mask and hire-out mercenary-spy hypnotist, Cypher.

// **Black Mask confirmation. Twelve men. Cypher the hypno is here.** \\\ Red reported in, whispering. Cardinal doubted the men would hear or see them, but crouched down like this, it felt like the entire world knew of them. It was better to be cautious now, rather than be sorry later. // **Batgirl is the hostage.** \\\

// **Cypher?** \\\ Nightwing sounded like he was frowning. He probably was. The last time they'd run into the mind control artist he had been targeted. There was a scar on his neck from the disk the man had used to control him. // **Didn't know Black Mask would be so willing to pair with a man who'd double cross him in a** **second. What would Batgirl have that Mask could want?** \\\

Truly, Cardinal was shocked as well. It was surprising to find Batgirl tied up, being beaten by thugs, in a warehouse. Night's Cardinal had learned to cover up shock well, as had all of them, but he couldn't help but stare.

// **Information?** \\\ Oracle suggested.

Sketcher added, // **BG does guard the Lower territory. It wouldn't be farfetched to assume she's heard some stuff.** \\\

The men jeered as Black Mask punched Batgirl's stomach hard enough for her to convulse. The warehouse echoed sound fiercely.

// **That's probably how she hears about these things before us. Eleven full days before us**.\\\ Spoiler huffed.

That set off something cold in his chest. Batgirl had been down here for _several_ _days,_  over a week, Allah need not wonder what had happened to her in that period of time. He shivered at the amount of damage that could be inflicted in an hour, nevermind _days_.

Black Mask was chuckling at something Cardinal hadn't heard. He couldn't see anyone's face, only Batgirl's — and she looked as if this was a normal run of the mill day, face drawn blank with boredom. He blinked as Mask reeled back and punched Batgirl again, rocking her back and forth. She made no sound, but her lips thinned.

"How did you know I was working from here? Who told you?" The man roared, voice thick in rage, carrying easily.

Cardinal tilted his head towards the right, the direction of which Batgirl was being _tortured._ Red nodded at the signal, shooting ahead of him onto the next beam with utmost care. Cardinal followed, watching as Spoiler's eyes flashed a purple in greeting as the rest of the Clan wormed their way into the warehouse.

"Who told you?" Black Mask thundered. A couple of his men had went from smirking victoriously to shifting uneasily. The man's volume was not appreciated it seemed.

Cypher stepped forward just as Cardinal got in position to sweep down. He rubbed Batgirl's cheek, finding it easy with his hunched back. "Tell him," the man hummed. "Tell me, this time."

Batgirl twitched. Alarm bells exploded in Cardinal's head, if she was reacting to _that_ —

"M-Ma- Mar—"

"That's it," Cyper soothed. "Just a little bit more, Batgirl."

"Marland." Batgirl gasped, shoulders and legs quaking. She looked pale, tied up at the knees, her arms strapped to her sides with a belt. "Marland Brookes. He... told me."

The gleam in Black Mask's now clear face said it all. He was going to kill the man; Marland Brookes, "Roundtree's" bookie owner on 44th.

—she was compromised. Batgirl was compromised.

// **Cypher is controlling Batgirl,** \\\ Cardinal growled.

// **Over.** \\\ Batman grunted. // **You know what to do, Nightwing.** \\\

// **Aye, aye,** \\\ his brother chirped.

A loud bang rung out, temporarily halting the 'interrogation'. The men all whirled around, grabbing the MK47s on their hips as they squared off against the dark.

"Heyo," Nightwing called, swinging down on a grapple to kick aside one of the goons. His grin was bright enough to blind every fool in the warehouse. "We're here about some noise complaints. Apparently you guys are annoying the neighbors."

Cardinal shook his head at the absurd excuse. The only neighbors for miles around in the warehouse side of the Bowery were warehouses. Even then, they didn't talk much.

"Green?" Red mouthed at him, ten feet over. Cardinal glanced down at the scene, Black Mask's men were busy with Nightwing and now Spoiler and Black Bat. Batman and Robin were playing 'catch the mouse' with Black Mask, who was beelining it for a truck. Batgirl was left hanging, Cypher whispering Allah-knows-what to her.

Night's Cardinal nodded.

The grappling hook that was shaped like a bat lodged itself into a container a good thirty feet away from the pair and Cardinal jumped. He came up in a roll, using the retracting hook to whack Cypher in the back of the head.

The bald mercenary hissed, white gloved hand shooting up to press at the blood-seeping slice as Red Robin jumped down beside him.

"Get Batgirl," Cardinal ground out to his brother before they were splitting up.

Cypher was a small time mercenary who relied on his hypnosis disks to persuade people into doing his bidding with the trigger of his voice. He was shrewd, crude and a backstabber, but by no means was he a master at any self-defense. He was a corporate spy, and believed people such as he would not come into situations where it was necessary.

Cardinal went for the man, sword out as he roundhoused Cypher. The pseudo-mercenary stumbled, tipping backwards as his face scrunched up. He righted himself just in time to dodge the tip of Cardinal's sword with the aid of sheer luck. Halfway across the warehouse the titter of a machine gun sounded, paired with Robin's joyous hooting.

Night's Cardinal smirked, assuming correctly that Black Mask had taken full advantage of the gun screwed into his truck. Robin would be chattering about his takedown for days, if all went well. The boy enjoyed dealing with guns far more than the rest of them, oddly enough.

Cypher's frown grew at the sound of the gun, pressing towards Cardinal. With a flurry of hands his sword was gone, held professionally in Cypher's hands.

It seemed his information on the spy was old.

"Just when did you learn to fight?" Cardinal snarled, sinking into a defensive stance as he pulled his armour plated arms up. His sword _skitched_ against the kevlar, slipping up his arm as Cypher's grip faltered. Cardinal seized the opportunity, throwing out a smoke pellet that had the poor excuse for a spy coughing up a lung. He grabbed his sword, slicing a long cut down Cypher's forearm.

"Batgirl has been more than generous in my footwork, if you noticed it." The man deflected. "I am, assured, naturally skilled."

A horrible wheezing rung out, reaching Cardinal's ears. He delivered a swift punch to Cypher's solar plexus and dragged him out of the smoke by the neck of his 90's themed alien get-up, sheathing his sword. Batgirl was the one producing the sound, shaking like a leaf in Red Robin's arms, legs sprawled out limp before her. She looked like she'd been hit by a truck, then run over by a train and maulled by a bear.

Cardinal secured Cypher with a grappling line, tieing him up along with seven or so downed, unconscious goons Nightwing and his Squad had left behind in their progression of combat.

"How is she?" He asked, voice gritty even to his own ears. Batgirl looked paler the right way up, skin clammy as she lay limp in Red's side. Red Robin, for his part looked concerned, brow drawn tight. Batgirl's usually red eyes were a dull, soulless black. Meaning either her suit lenses had powered down or she was unconscious. Cardinal assumed it was the latter, with her slow, shallow — _hollow_ sounding— breathing.

"Not sure," Red said. Nightwing and his Squad had dealt with the goons, Black Bat bouncing off to punch Black Mask out of the truck's back-carriage. "Her pulse is irregular, breathing is quick. A rib, or two, fractured. At least one broken. Loads of bruises, I bet. And... she's unconscious, I think."

"You think?" Spoiler asked as she and Nightwing stopped beside them. Robin cackled a hundred feet over, jeering at a grumbling Black Mask as they tied him up. "It's not that hard to suss out if someone's out of it or not, really, Red—"

"Batgirl!" Cypher screamed, voice muffled. "Kill them all!"

Cardinal gulped, eyes shooting wide like everyone else's as Batgirl jerked and shot up like a puppet reanimated. She batted away Red Robin's grip, roundhousing him before launching into a frontflip that had her thighs around Spoiler's throat.

"Okay," Spoiler stumbled back, plummeting to the ground in a move that Cardinal recognised to be one of desperate shock. She lifted both herself and Batgirl off the ground as Batman and Robin sprinted over, slamming the other girl into the ground repeatedly in hopes of getting loose of her. "This isn't funny. Some help, please?"

Cardinal strode forward, snapping into action as he grabbed Batgirl by her dainty waist, tugging. Black Bat grabbed her legs, prying them apart just enough for Spoiler to drop and roll out of them. Batman loomed closer, a needle in his hands.

Batgirl tensed, stilling for a moment. Black Bat blinked, frowning down at her.

"She's trying to fight it," was all Black got out before she got a boot in the face. Cardinal growled, swinging Batgirl away as she jumped in his arms. Hot searing pain shot up from his groin, indicating he'd been kicked but he didn't budge despite how he wanted to shrivel up in on himself and whimper.

"Hurry up," Cardinal barked to Batman. Batgirl was panting now, shaking as she struggled.

"Please—" she choked out, before Cardinal took another hit to the groin, harder this time, and dropped her with a shout.

"Kill them, Batgirl!" Cypher shouted. In the corner of his eye, Cardinal could see Nightwing gripping the man's head, face twisted into a snarl. Likely trying to threaten a man with nothing left. It wouldn't work, Cardinal knew.

Batgirl, instead of striking out at another one of them, stood in the middle of their defensive circle, having formed instinctively at Spoiler's struggle. The unknown Bat —Batman didn't know her identity, after four (five?) years, but neither did they— swayed.

"You think she's gonna—?" Robin whispered, the only sound present aside from Nightwing's furious hisses and Batgirl's laboured breathing. The boy didn't get to complete his sentence as Batgirl’s head jolted, a chest wracking cough sending blood dripping from her lips. It dripped to the cement ground, splashing softly as they all cringed. Robin fell silent in horror.

Cardinal made eye contact with Father. An almost imperceptible nod later and Cardinal was once more subduing Batgirl, his arms crossed over her waist, keeping her arms locked behind her. This time he brought up a leg, pushing her into the ground with her legs crossed under his heavier one.

But she didn't fight. She sagged in his hold, chin knocking against his arm. Batman held the needle like it was a brick, unsure of what to do.

"The disk," Nightwing said, loud enough for all to hear. Batgirl's breathing grew heavier, as if she was struggling to get air in. Graciously, Cardinal loosened his hold a tad, noting with disdain how it seemed to have no effect. Her lips were quivering, fingers shaking. Her muscles jumped as the disk binged, forcing an order Cypher was not able to say aloud. "Pull it off her neck."

Batman narrowed his eyes, keeping the needle out just in case as he reached forth to brush away her hair and pull the disk out of her now bared suit's neck. The kevlar there was thinner, like on their own suits, and Cardinal wondered how Cypher had known to place the disk there.

With Batman's fingers inches away from the disk, Batgirl shouted, her head flying back. Cardinal just barely avoided a bloody nose as he commended the woman's strength. To be able to struggle like this, after possibly eleven days of imprisonment was impressive.

"T-the belt—" Batgirl cried. "Get it aw-away!"

Blood gushing cold, Night's Cardinal realised what the binged order had been: kill them, or yourself. Batgirl was willing to end her own life to save them. A woman they didn't even know and Cardinal doubted knew their real identites. Robin shot towards it, grabbing and unhooking the bright red belt from her waist seconds before her fingers twitched to the place Cardinal knew stored her batarangs, pulling out of his grasp. Batgirl was shaking again, differentiating from a chest-heaving cough to pained moans stemming from the pressure on her ribs, and likely, everything else that hurt. They'd have to keep it away from her for a few hours yet, as the liquid Cyper used to transmit his hypnotic ways tended to linger in the blood for a while after removal.

"Useless whore," Cypher snarled and something in the lower-half of Batgirl's visible face shuttered and went cold. Nightwing knocked him out with a nicely placed kick to the head, uncaring for a possible casualty.

"It's okay," Cardinal got the sudden urge to coo, so he did. "You're fine now, we've got you. Cypher is out, gone."

"Never coming back," Nightwing grunted, tone unusually dark even for him.

Thankfully none of the Clan remarked on how he was gently rocking her, softly transitioning her into a bridal carry. Her lenses shuddered, fluctuating between black and a dull, barely-on blue. Her suit was struggling. No doubt, she was too.

"We can help you," Batman said, drawing Batgirl's fleeting attention. "But we'll need to take you back to the Cave."

"Sure," She slurred, coughing weakly. "Jus' don' peek."

"We would never," Red Robin stated but Batgirl was already out.

"To the Batcave we go," Spoiler announced. "I'll send out the signal for the Commish."

 


	21. The Cave of the Bats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Batgirl's stuck in a corner: she can either wear her dirty suit and embarrass herself, she could out herself as Batgirl or she could try out her new holographic tech. 
> 
> That's how BG is born. Meet Bethany Gertrude - the fake woman behind the very real cowl.

 

 

"So this is y'alls _Batcave._ "

Duke jumped, spinning around in his spinny seat to spot Batgirl standing in the door of the medbay. The florescent lights were on behind her, casting her dark kevlar suit into a dark, gloomy shadow. Honestly, she looked like a demon rising from the depths of hell.

"Yep," Duke grinned. "You've heard of it?"

"Who ain't?" Batgirl pushed off from the doorframe and made her way over to Duke. She favoured her right leg, but she didn't limp. Her lipstick made her lips look plush, a soft smile on them making her look inviting and kind. This was the first time Duke — well, _Sketcher_ — was meeting Batgirl. He sure wasn't unimpressed.

She had a nice figure, with all her curves in the right places. Although, Duke wondered how much of that was her suit and how much was natural. He knew —in suit, Steph had a body to drool over, outside not so much— what shaped kevlar could do for one's appearance. Her hair seemed to glow in the dull lighting of the Cave — almost looking like fire reanimated as it shone. Even her cowl, which jutted up into two points just above her eyes as it ended, looked good. Sketcher guessed it was her hair — red made a lot of things look good.

"Awful dark," she supplied as she cast her gaze around the main cavern. Her red lenses lingered on the huge penny and the dinosaur the longest, skimming over the old 1600s underground pully lift and the podium above Duke like they were merely additions to a painting, small details.

"We like it tha' way," he said, turning his attention back to the monitors. Nightwing's heart-rate was a tad high, but he _was_ jumping about like a sugar high puppy currently so it wasn't that worrying. "Makes it better to stay down 'ere when you're tired."

"Where ya from?" Batgirl was beside him suddenly, peering up at the high navy plated, yellow railing monstrosity that the suits sat above when not in use. Their display cases glowed white — the main source of light so close to the monitor, so high up.

"Hittin' up Dead End's Third Block," he answered airily. "Haven't been down round there in a while tho'."

"Y'all Bats don't go round there much," Batgirl said, arms crossed. She looked down at the monitor screen, eyes narrowing as she seen what Duke was watching; Batman's cowl cam. "The Bats gotta cam in his cowl?"

"That's what we're seein'," Duke grinned. The monitor reflected the pair of them; Batgirl, all shimmering, wavy hair, pointed cowl and nice lips, and him, navy white lensed domino mask and cuffed black hair. "B-man put it in when me an' O popped up. Wanted to keep us in the loop."

"Oracle not in tonight?"

Duke kept his grin but gave her a look out of the side of his eye. Batgirl had obviously done some research. Duke wondered what else she knew.

"Nah, she took the night off. Down wit' her gals in Cormorant." Duke shrugged. The Birds of Prey needed their leader every so often and B couldn't exactly argue there was no one to be on Monitor Duty.

"Birds of Prey, righ'?"

Duke smartly swallowed his spit before he choked on it. "Y'sure know lots."

"I pay attention," Batgirl imitated his shrug, unblinking lenses staring down at him. Duke stared back, unsure of what to do when Batgirl looked away with a smirk.

// _ **You're a spaz, 'Wing!**_ \\\ Robin's voice hollered over the comm. link. Curious, Duke turned around and found what Batgirl had been smirking at.

It was Nightwing. He was doing the splits between two narrow buildings that were _very_ close together. From his grimace it had been an accident.

"What'n idiot," Batgirl said.

Cardinal jumped the gap between his roof and 'Wing's, haulling his brother up with a smug look. Nightwing was laughing sheepishly now.

// _ **Whoops!**_ \\\

"He's our idiot," Duke smiled.

Batgirl looked at him like she was seeing something new.

"I want to say thank you." Duke cleared his thoat, fiddling with his fingers.

"Wha' for?" Batgirl seemed interested. Or was she amused? She was hard to read, so different from Jason or Steph. The blank cowl made reading her harder, of course, but Duke couldn't make out nearly as much as he normally could — even with Batman.

"Y'know, for not killin' them all a day ago." Duke shrugged, offering her a small smile. "How is your neck, by tha way?"

"'S alrigh'. Neck aches a lil'. Where do y'all have yer showers?"

"Second marble door from the left. First is the gym. Towels an' all should be inside the cubicles." Duke took that as an end to that line of conversation.

"Nobody punched a hole through the wall yet and spooked sumbody?" Batgirl jumped off the podium, her right leg quivering.

"Y'know, you're the first to say that." Duke laughed. "Joint braces are in there too —fabric strap-on ones. Feel free to take a couple."

"Cheers," and then she was gone, swallowed up by the shadows of the Cave. Duke heard the door open and close and relaxed back into his seat.

 

 

Batgirl walked into the shower room and smirked at the half-wall that separated the locker section from the cubicles. She stood there for a moment, door closing shut behind her.

There were little stickers on the grey locker doors, yellowed with age for some. She walked down the aisle, sparing the wooden bar bench a wide berth. The first couple were the newest, with their names all of their alias'. Black Bat's and a few others' had been scored out a few times, each new name written in a different, darker, marker colour. At the end of the decently sized changing room —she guessed that was what its official name was— were the older lockers, one being spray painted an obnoxious yellow. It was Nightwing's — no surprise there.

Beside the door was a cabinet, labelled _medical supplies_ in Damian's looping cursive. Below it was a blockier _medical supplies,_ obviously for those that couldn't read Dami's writing. It made Batgirl smile so she stood there a little while longer. There was a mirror above the cabinet but she ignored it, not wanting to see the state she was in after two days of torture and a day of unconsciousness.

She'd been down twelve days now. That was annoying.

Eventually, when her leg just couldn't take standing in one place anymore, she moved on, into the showering section. There were five cubicles, large enough to fit an overly obese man in each. White painted, metal cupboards sat at the far end of them, outside of the showers' range. Inside were towels, shampoos, conditioners, body washes and disposable razors.

Quickly, she stripped, grabbing some soaps while no one was scrambling for the showers as the Clan probably would after patrol. The water was warm and she stood under it for a guilty moment before layering on the shampoo. She scrubbed down as quick as she could while admiring the smell of the shampoo and conditioner — _apple fresh,_ they claimed to be.

Three minutes later she was done, body feeling as clean as it could when she was stricken with two broken ribs and one fractured one. She was lucky, whatever ribs that'd broken, she couldn't feel any pain. That just meant she'd be dealing with some serious bruising.

Rachel stepped out of the shower after towelling down and squeezing the excess water out of her hair. It held water, which was annoying.

She walked back out into the locker area, trailing her limp suit behind her. There was still a mirror above the medical supply cabinet and she blinked at herself as she rifled through its drawers.

"Lookin' rough," she grunted, voice thick from the heat. Unearthing a still boxed knee-joint brace, she strapped it on nicely. Her hair was lax, her eyes were verging on bloodshot —like since when? _Excuse me?_ — and she was having a minor spot outbreak around her T-Zone.

_The joys of being a teenager,_ she grumbled. She didn't want to wear her suit, as comforting as it was. It was smelled like sweat. She had to clean it — no way was she hanging around the _Clan_ while stinking of sweat more than usual.

_The holoform,_ a small voice reminded her. Rachel grinned, skipping over to grab her mask and pull a chip out of the earcap.

It was a small, black circular device. Her holographic projector for her hair.

She'd upgraded it a while back, to imitate her suit if she was ever badly injured, or if she wanted to imitate someone else. It had been upgraded with Aleksandr's money so that it was touch-responsive, meaning someone could touch her holograph and it would feel 100% real.

Maybe it was time to put her genius to good use.

Rachel squeezed the chip and it morphed automatically, turning into an earring bar piercing. She slipped it into her actual piercing hole and let the device mold her appearance.

A woman, at least twenty-three, looked back at her. Rachel stepped back, standing on the wooden bar'd bench for a full look. She had good breasts, good hips, long slender legs. Her hair fell in damp, firey red waves and her eyes shone a deep blue. Rachel turned, admiring a nice ass and sturdy thighs for a moment before deciding she needed to get dressed. The large black brace around her knee was also a huge turn off.

Her nose was pretty though, cute and almost button-like. And her jaw — _damn,_ it could cut a strong man in half along with her perfectly shaped eyebrows. They were red to match her hair, of course. She didn't have freckles or any extra facial additions, but she didn't need them, face smooth and bright. Those things just made these personas harder to replicate.

Not that this sort of situation would ever happen again. She was giving the Bat Clan a fake face to get them off her back and to show a smidge of trust by giving them a face in the first place. She doubted they'd look her up immediately anyway.

Her suit's wrist computer glowed, alerting her that the fake profile had been made. She soared it a glance, skimming over the information. _Damn,_ she was twenty- _five._ A Gothamite, born and rared in the Lower parts. Everything checked out because _of course_ it did.

Rachel crouched down to her belt, grabbing a tank top and a pair of shorts from one of its pockets. They were too small at a size 2. Clicking her tongue, Rachel pulled out a few more HD's (holographic devices) and slipped them into the seams. They liquidised, becoming one with the fabric and linked up with her earring piece. They changed to a size 6 and Rachel slid the garments on, marvelling at herself once more in the mirror. Her feet were the same general size —although, a 6 now— so her black trainer socks still fitted.

On a second thought, she put her contacts in too. There was no good in going into a bat's den blind.

Sight renewed, she bundled her suit into her arms and pushed open the marble door. Duke— Sketcher was still at the monitors, chatting happily away. The three monitor screens were filled now, different cam streams taking them all up, whereas before the middle one had been the only one on, being Batman's footage.

Deciding to approach the man — he was around twenty, right?— she straightened out her backstory. A kid from the Narrows, jumped the bridge with her folks a couple years before it collapsed. Lived in the bad bits of the city, down near Park Row, and seen a lot of shit. Her name: BETHANY GERTRUDE {NO SURNAME}. Her nickname: BG. Criminal record of a few robberies, a few pickpocketings, she'd been done for eight months, had served six. No known family. Unknown current residence. Just another normal Gothamite.

_Alrigh',_ she thought and settled her suit down on the floor by the podium. She jumped the small three foot height and stood beside Sketcher, resting her arm on his brown leather-backed chair.

Sketcher jumped, cutting off mid-sentence. BG smiled down at him to which he mirrored, resuming his sentence at Nightwing's cautious calling of his name.

BG was content to stand, but her leg was not. Ten minutes into watching the Clan's behind the scenes man work, she grew weary. There was a track on the podium, leading off into the dark. Bored, BG patted Sketcher's shoulder in goodbye and wandered down the track.

It was a large metal seat, fifteen or so feet along the track, at the end of it. It must've been Batman's, for it was too big for anyone else, a small but well-worn black cushion on the base of it. Smirking, BG sat down on it, goosebumps rising on both her legs and arms as she settled on the cool metal.

Rachel was internally swooning over the temperature sensitivity and reaction time while BG gently eased herself —and the chair— along the track. A few minutes later she was beside Sketcher again, this time with a seat. He gave her an amused grin. She smiled back.

// _ **Can I drop down there?**_ \\\Came Robin's voice. A glance to one of the cams found his name in bold at the bottom right. He was down in the Shipping District, between two old warehouses, portside. BG squinted and saw his legs dangling over the side of one warehouse's old guttering. Batman was down on the street, thirty feet over, but the boy was obviously doubting the twenty-to-thirty foot drop.

"Tell him if he's done it before he can do it now," she nudged Sketcher's flannel plaid arm.

// _ **Y'sure?**_ \\\ Robin questioned, genuinely unsure. BG hadn't realised there was a mic built into the metal desk. That meant the entire Clan had listened to her and Sketcher speaking earlier.

_So much for privacy._

"Yeah, kid." She said. "It can't be anything more than thirty-five feet. I've seen ya jump down a six-storey 'scraper an' land alrigh'."

// _ **But Boss-man was there to catch me last time,**_ \\\

"Imagine he's there then, waiting for ya. Take a deep breath and image Bats' is waitin' for ya groundside, it'll work. Trust me." BG promised. It wasn't often she promised something.

Robin seemed to understand that as well. He jumped. The cam's resolutiom was brilliant, for even with the boy free-falling everything was clear. Jason's Robin green boots hit the dirty gravel and the boy tipped forward in a roll before standing. He clapped excitedly as he did a little cheer.

// _ **T'anks, Batgirl.**_ \\\

"No problem, kid."

BG looked over to Sketcher at the feeling of eyes on her and found him smiling. He was smiling at her, so heartfelt it made her ribs ache. He tapped something on the table.

"I muted our conversation earlier, just in case you wanted to know." The man said. He seemed sheepish, like Nightwing had been earlier in the night. He looked back to the monitors but continued to speak. "We all like privacy and I reckoned you might too, so— y'know."

He trailed off and BG smirked, leaning back in her seat as she relaxed from her advice giving. Her legs looped over the humongous armrests, long limbs swinging, as she stared at the side-profile of Sketcher.

"Yer sweet, y'know that?" The man seemed to inflate. "But not my type." She offered him an apologetic smile as Sketcher sunk down like he was a burst balloon.

"Oh, right," he stumbled with his words. "Um, sorry. I get that. If you don't mind me asking, you seem a bit— uh, are you—?"

"Gay?" She asked. Sketcher looked up at her like he was a kicked puppy, awaiting an answer. BG whistled lowly, head tipping back against the chair's hard back. "Guess so, kinda inbetween tho', so I guess I'm a inbetweener."

"Bisexual, you mean?" Sketcher was grinning again.

"Yeah," she waved her hand. "Whatever. I like boys and gals, calm down. I don' need no name fer it."

"Some do," Sketcher noted.

BG nodded along and felt her eyes drift to the monitor closest to her. Something blurred in front of it and she jerked upright, heart thumping to match Cardinal's shout.

// _ **What in the—!**_ \\\ The teen was shouting. His heart-rate had spiked dramatically. Sketcher was looking at his cam like he'd gone insane. // _ **Tell me you seen that, Sketcher.**_ \\\

"I seen it," BG said, slamming on the mic before Sketcher could speak. He obviously _hadn't,_ going from the look on his face. "I did. Can we rewind the footage, S?"

Frowning, Sketcher did as she asked. He tapped at a few buttons before replaying the cam footage. Again, something blurred inches infront of Cardinal's eyes, gone as quick as light. Then, the screen jerked and Cardinal was shouting again.

"Replay it," she ordered. "Slower this time."

_// I **want to see this,**_ \\\ Nightwing protested. _// **Send it to me too.** \\\_

_// **Me too!**_ \\\Spoiler insisted.

_// **Me as well,**_ \ ****\Black Bat said.

_// **Sketcher.**_ \\\ Batman grunted, a silent command.

"All righ', all righ', kids. Calm yo tits." Sketcher sighed, tapping a few buttons again. He ignored Robin's cackle of 'I don't have tits, dude!' and BG smirked despite herself. "There, everybody's got it now. Streaming live from the Batcomputer. Replaying at minus one point seven five, youtube style."

The blurr passed by, not as dark as before, but was gone just as quick.

_// **Change** **the** **speed,**_ \\\ Cardinal demanded.

Sketcher seemed interested now. As was everyone else, if the silence over the usually loud comm. link meant anything.

"Replaying at minus one point two five."

The blurr was now obviously a man. His suit was yellow, orange hair sprouting at the top like a shredded carrot. A white toothed grin was visible, smug as the man passed by Cardinal, waving the middle finger in his face.

// **** _ **Kid Flash,**_ \\\ nearly every member of the Clan growled.

_// **He** **will pay dearly.**_ \\\Night's Cardinal added.

"Alrigh'," hummed BG, just a tad confused. "Who the hell's Kid Flash?"

// _**Flash's sidekick,**_ \\\ Spoiler was quick to explain. // _ **He zooms about the country like he owns it and he's such an arrogant, little fu—**_ \\\

_// **Alright,** **let's keep this PG**_ _ **, Spoiler.**_ \\\ Suggested Nightwing with a stiff laugh.

_Huh._ Here BG was, thinking the Clan were on good terms with everyone. Well, obviously not _everyone,_ but she hadn't expected _open hostility_ to be on the tick list.

"Flash operates in Central, does he no'?" BG questioned. "Why'd he be round 'ere?"

// _ **Lock** **down the Cave!**_ \\\ Batman thundered. BG jumped in her chair and would've toppled it were it not for the fact the thing was on tracks. God, that man could shout. // _ **All Patrollers group up, get into squad numbers now! If you can't; make friends.**_ \\\

That had to be the weirdest order BG had ever heard come from Batman's mouth. Bruce Wayne, normal sure — the guy was kinda weird. Batman? Hell to the no, not strict, stern and broody Mr. Bat.

What the fuck was happening?

"Wha'?"

"Crap, crap, crap," Sketcher was chanting as green lights flickered to life in the Cave. BG frowned, slapping his arm.

"Wha's happenin'?"

"KF is a dickhead who likes to jump in unannounced." Sketcher said, flattenting his domino mask with his fingers. He pulled out a drawer on the side of the table and offered her a choice of two.

"Will I need one?" She quieried.

"Yes." The man said. His face was squishing up like he was suffering a heart attack and BG was quite honestly _panicking._

"Righ'," she grabbed the black one because she was not using a yellow domino mask. Not now, not ever. A second passed and she spent it staring at it. "Um, how do ya—?"

"Oh," Sketcher smiled awkwardly at her and grabbed a cloth from the drawer. "We usually lick ours but that's a bit unhygenic. Here, let me."

BG let him take the domino from her hands, letting him dampen it with the cloth as she looked around the Cave. She could see more clearly with the green lights on. Over to her right, where the medbay was, was a long twisting metal staircase that led up to a wall (no doubt a secret doorway from the outside), a deeper cavern in the middle with the already visible metal lift hidden way in the back, and to the right was a spin table and a large metal door.

Sketcher handed her back her domino and she pressed it on. Its lenses lit up as soon as she put it on, her internal HUD filling with information about the air quality, ground substance, stone quality, and a whole lot of other things. She made an impressed noise as Sketcher pushed back his chair.

"C'mon, time for an impromptu tour." He offered her his hand.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Used U.S. Shoe sizes for this too. Hope they're right.
> 
> UK - US (women)  
> 1 - 3 (Rachel's)  
> 2.5 - 5  
> 3.5 - 6 (BG's)  
> 4 - 7.5  
> 5 - 8.5


	22. Our Uncorrupted Lungs Ain't Burning Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kid Flash — arrogant, stupid and a crosser of the Bat Clan. 
> 
> BG doesn't even bother feeling sympathy for him.

 

 

"Alrigh'," she said, eyebrow raising and pulling the domino to curve with it. It felt weird, like the mask was trying to rip her not-real eyebrows off, so she stopped. She bypassed his hand, opting to trail behind him.

Sketcher led her down his side of the podium, where there were actual metal steps, and flooded off to the left. BG had to lengthen her stride to keep up with his.

"Over there's the main entrance," Sketcher said, pointing to the metal door. "Behind it's a waterfall, but we shouldn't count on that to hold 'im back."

"Why are we wantin' ta hold 'im back?" She asked. "Why don't y'all like Kiddie Flash?"

"Nightwing was friends wit' him, years back when the big boyos in the JLA HQ decided they wanted a team of children." Sketcher explained with a bitter tinge to his voice. BG lagged behind, noticing the jagged stalactites up on the ceiling. "B-man wasn't so sure but 'Wing wanted to go, so he went. 'Wing went to be friendly but KF wasn't too nice. Long story short, he don't like us and we don't like him."

"Tha' don't explain much," she frowned. Sketcher picked up the pace.

"KF holds grudges," Sketcher admitted with a lax shrug as they headed for the two dips of stone with water in them with the table in the middle. "'S not our fault we died his hair pink and it stuck for three months." She snickered, thinking it was funny, but Sketcher turned around and levelled her with a dangerous frown. "No. He was an asshole to Nightwing, sent him home depressed, told him to never come back and we struck back. We protect our own, no shit taken."

"Keep up," Sketcher said after a moment, breaking into a sprint as he reached the spin-table. BG had no problem keeping up, but her ribs twinged in irritation.

They passed the rigid metal, blue lined spin table and went straight into a dark cavern beside it, careful of falling into the quiet lapping water, in the hollowed out crevices, that came directly from the waterfall. Overhead lights activated as they ran in, showing off a shocking array of vehicles from submarines, airplanes and motorcyles. There was three ailes of sleek, black vehicles. There had to be at least fifteen Batmobiles in here, each one different from the last. They passed one, a big bulky thing that looked more like a tank but somehow bulkier even. Sketcher nodded at it in greeting and it whirred to life, windows brightening.

"Sorry. Not today, Lake Jumper!" Sketcher called and the behemoth powered down with a sad chirp.

BG stared incredulously at the back of his head.

Sketcher looked back at her again and smirked. "She's the first Batmobile. Hasn't been out in a while, albeit, but she's as ready as ever."

"You called her Lake Jumper."

"Yeah. She's an old uncirculated military prototype. She jumps over lakes." Sketcher shrugged like it was an every day thing, to be able to say a mechanical lump like that could jump itself and its passengers over lakes. BG was grateful, for some reason, that the military hadn't gotten ahold of the Lake Jumper, yet she was also unsure of how to feel at the fact that the Bat Clan had it instead.

Benefits of being headed by a billionaire, she supposed.

"Wow."

"I know." Sketcher looked about ready to fanboy but he held himself together as they passed a hanging plane — seriously, it was hanging from the roof by rubber plated chains. Its wings were folded up like a bats, joints invisible as the plane seemed to meld together seamlessly.

This Cave was so weird.

Well, BG supposed it _was_ the product of a billionaire's _hobby._ She wondered if all billionaires, excluding Lex Luthor, got up to things like this.

"Here we are," Sketcher sounded giddy again. He'd stopped them both in front of a large circular wrought metal door. There was one of those classic four-armed spin-disk submarine locks on the front, but it seemed useless, as Sketcher merely placed his hand on a place on the stone beside it and the door swung open soundlessly.

"Wha's the point in havin' a twist-handle if y'all have hand recog.?" BG asked as Sketcher offered for her to go first. She stilled in place and Sketcher shrugged, going on in first.

"Eh. It's for appearances' sake, I guess. And its _DNA_ recognition." Sketcher twirled on his heel. "Welcome to the Bat Clan Armoury."

"And ya brought me here, why?" That was stupid. She could be an undercover agent, hiding for Luthor or someone, and Sketcher had just led her into the Clan's armoury. If she were evil, she could use all of this against them, kill them, or blow it all up and deplenish their resources. She could single out Sketcher too, kill him in the dark and leave him down here to rot.

Thankfully, she wasn't evil.

"Nobody can get in 'ere but the Clan," Sketcher said. "Like I said, y'need our DNA for the lock. For both the main entrance and this door."

"But nothing else?" She didn't see the point in that.

"We needed to leave routes open for our people if the Batcave were to go on Lockdown. With Lockdown all DNAR doors are shut down unless you're inside the Cave." Sketcher explained, frown tense. "It didn't make sense to lock all the doors, so we kept some open for our own outside. But, thing is, we don't know how many KF knows about."

"Why let him know 'bout any of them in the firs' place?" BG questioned, eyes narrowed.

"We were big friends with the Justice League, once," Sketcher said. "Not so much now, but back then we were the 'up in arms' type of comrades. We let the main six know a few entrypoints t'get down here in case something went real wrong and they needed our help. But when we cut off from them, they still knew 'bout the entries. B-man still regrets telling them."

"Why not seal the entries? Make new ones?" There was always a solution to a problem, you just had to look hard enough. BG didn't miss how Sketcher hadn't said how the Clan and the League had fallen out. This was all new to her. When had this happened? Why?

Last she'd checked, Superman was a valuable ally to have on your side when shit hit the fan. As was the Justice League of America.

"Can't. The land's too unstable to make any more and sealing them up would put us at more of a disadvantage than it would them. You have no idea how often we use those entries. They open up into different parts of the City. If we were to break ties with them more people would die as our responce times slowed."

Okay, that made sense. They _were_ all the way over here, in the Country, and they worked in Main Gotham. Of course they needed a few secret exits and entries. It was stupid that they'd let out word of all of them, though.

"They know 'bout all of 'em?"

"Not all, but most." Sketcher shrugged as if to say _'what else can we do?'_.

"Why are we down 'ere, 'gain?"

"Right!" Sketcher said, jumping quite literally into action. He snapped his fingers and the armoury's lights turned a dull blue, the door slipped shut and a holographic computer set-up appeared in the middle of the room. "Grab a chair, m'lady."

BG did just that, pulling one from the corner of the pretty large room. It was covered in dust, which she brushed off before sitting on it. The cowl cams popped back up on the screens.

"'Sup guys, we're back."

"Howdy y'all," she offered.

Sketcher snickered before becoming serious. "Any word of him yet?"

// _ **No,**_ \\\ Batman said. He sounded irritated. // _ **Contacting Allen has proved to be futile. The Main Six are out in Space, dealing with something.**_ \\\

"Shoot," Sketcher sighed.

// _ **My words exactly,**_ \\\ Spoiler laughed.

// _ **Admit it. You swore a little more, Spoiler.**_ \\\ Red Robin clipped on. BG marvelled at his voice, so deep and authoritative in the suit. Such a difference from little Timothy Drake-Wayne who spoke with the reverence to shame a priest.

"What do y'all have that he could wan'?" She asked, breaking the mood.

// _ **Pride,**_ \\\ Cardinal said. BG didn't understand. // _ **We are Bats, the strongest hubris hoarding animal known to man. The scorn of Flash's brood wants it, wants to say he defeated us. But he is the coward, going for our brain rather than our heart.**_ \\\

"Sounds like a jealous guy," she snorted. She wasn't too sure on the whole pride thing, but she let that go.

// ** _Do not underestimate him,_** \\\Black Bat announced.

// ** _Yeah, last time I seen him, he punched a guy in the nose for underestimating him. He broke it._** \\\Nightwing called.

BG shot Sketcher a confounded look.

_'Remember I said he wasn't too nice? Yeah.'_ Sketcher mouthed. BG raised an eyebrow despite the discomfort it caused her.

"So, when should be be expecting him?" Sketcher spoke up.

// _ **Around now.**_ \\\

On cue, the door rippled from the outside, roaring as it twisted inwards. BG stood, grabbing the nearest belt to hook around her waist. She grabbed a few wired batarangs from it, quickly reprogramming them. A fist was visible in the door now, the metal warped a good ten inches inwards from the punch. Behind her, Sketcher laughed oddly.

"We're dead," he mourned.

"No' yet." She declared.

"Come on out," yelled a cocky voice. "Or I'll come on in!"

_Come and face me, brat._ She had a reputation to uphold after all. Kiddie Flash would fall _crying_.

 

 

Robin wasn't worried. Wasn't worried one bit. Jason was worried, sure. But that was a different story altogether.

"What'da we do?" He asked, tugging at B's cape in an act he hadn't done in years. He hoped it was testament to his panic. He hoped B had a plan.

B always had a plan. He had to know what to do.

Because Kid fuckin' Flash was in the City, _their_ City. And he was threatening _them._ Batman had to have a plan.

But the way Batman's mouth thinned and his eyes narrowed said it all; B didn't have a plan. Batman didn't have a plan and very suddenly, Robin felt queasy. "Let's get to the Cave, now."

Everyone stirred to move but paused, unsure.

"He'll kill us, Boss," Spoiler said unhelpfully, frown as unhappy as Cardinal's. "Are you sure?"

"We can't leave two of our own in there to be massacred," Batman said. His gauntlet unsheathed itself from the depths of his cape and ruffled Robin's hair, calming him. He barely registered the fact that he'd just called Batgirl one of their own. "And we can take him down, because Wally West will not kill."

"But we _will?_ _"_ Nightwing scowled. "B—"

"I never said we would. But I know we're scary and if we made enough moves—"

"To make it seem like we don't mind taking his life," Cardinal's grin was cruel.

"Then we could scare him off." Red Robin finished, nodding. His hair lapped over his face, casting a shadow. From where Robin was getting sucked into Batman's cape even he could see the teen's smug smirk.

"I like this plan," Black Bat clapped lightly, once.

Robin looked up, seen his family grinning, and grinned too. "We good now?"

Everyone looked at him and offered their own kind of a reassuring smile.

"Yes," B ruffled his hair again before fixing it. When Robin looked up at him, he was smiling down at him too. "Let's get to it then, Robin."

"Aye, aye, Captain!" He hooted, grinning as he grappled down to the Batmobile.

"Hey, brat! Quoting Spongebob's my thing!" Spoiler yelled.

// ** _Robin and I will take the Batmobile,_** \\\Robin heard as he was strapping in. // _ **I want Patrol Squads to stick together. Retrieve Sketcher and Batgirl from danger and get rid of Kid Flash.**_ \\\

// ** _You mean, 'the pest', right, Father?_** \\\Cardinal snarked.

Batman dropped down outside the Batmobile and redacted the roof to jump in. Robin beamed at his smile as he too strapped in.

"Yes, Cardinal. Apologies." His Dad said, then he put the 'mobile into gear and they were off.

 

 

Sketcher grabbed a Bo Staff from a weapon rack and latched a belt around his waist. He refused to admit how high his heart-rate was, watching as Batgirl squared off against the door. She'd only put on one belt and while Sketcher did not doubt her skills, Kid Flash was a _metahuman._ Lower Gotham didn't get many of those aside from Ivy.

And Ivy was an easy take-down, compared to a speedster. Not that Sketcher would know.

"Here," he said, nudging her with his hand full of belts. She turned her head, looking down at the belts with such calmness Sketcher took a moment to wonder if she was really only wearing a pair of boyshorts and a tanktop. "Take these, you'll need them. The freeze pellets will slow him down hopefully, so use them if he gets too close."

"Freeze pellets?" She echoed, taking the belts and strapping them over her chest. It was almost a tight fit but she adjusted their size and filled the space with a few extra add-on pockets. Duke gestured to the freeze pellets in the restocking drawer and she happily took a couple extra handfuls.

"Engineered after B-man had a run-in with Viktor Freeze. They basically react to the air and create a small area of subzero ice. The more you use the bigger the coverage area, they'll still last the usual thirty to forty seconds."

"That with a speedster?" Batgirl looked more serious than he'd ever seen one of his family even look.

"No," he stalled as Kid Flash laughed outside. "Ten seconds tops, I'd estimate."

And then the blurred man fazed through the armoury's wrought iron door. Kid Flash stood there, smirking because he knew they were cornered and so did they. He rested his hands on his hips and shook his head.

"So," he started.

"Y'gonna stop pullin' that power pose, boy?" Batgirl snapped, spine made of steel. "Or ya gonna wimp 'bout all night?"

And that was how all hell broke loose, hot enough to rival hell itself.

KF's expression twisted into a snarl so quickly Sketcher hesitated to even name it a snarl because he could barely make it out. Then, the third generation speedster charged and time seemed to slow. Batgirl dropped a few freeze pellets a few feet ahead of KF and Sketcher's heart missed a beat _because she'd missed._

Kid Flash smirked like he was thinking the same thing. But Batgirl just laughed and launched a batarang at the ice, already pulling Sketcher away to jump behind one of the anti-Superman suits.

The batarang exploded. KF screamed.

"Get the door open!" Batgirl ordered as she threw another exploding batarang in the confusion. The ground shook with the force of it. "Now!"

Sketcher found himself shoved in the direction of the door and all he could do was race the last few feet towards it as Batgirl engaged Kid Flash. She wouldn't last long, he knew. He'd seen the simulations of Damian up against Flash and although his brother occasionally won, he was still adjusting to the Second Flash's speed.

Wally West, from the whispers, was even faster than Barry Allen.

The door wouldn't open at his DNA the first try round. So, he tried again. And again. And again. Swearing internally to not draw attention to himself, he pulled off the control pannel. Inside was a mess of sparking and japping wires. Great, KF had fried the door system when he'd fazed through it. Just great.

Batgirl was slammed into a wall, her grunt audible over the clatter of weapons collapsing off their storage units. Sketcher risked a look back and saw her getting back up again, one of Damian's katanas in her hand this time round, missing a belt from around her chest.

_Hurry up, son._ Whispered his old man, bags slung over his shoulder, bank vault door locked shut. The heist had been a setup by Cluemaster. Batman was gonna come and kill them. _Get this door open 'fore the cops or_ _ **he**_ _get 'ere!_

Sketcher pushed the memory down and started rewiring the door, salvaging what he could to _just get it open, damn it_. Somewhere behind him, Kid Flash grunted and Sketcher turned in time to see Batgirl tackling the man, keeping him away from him. He dropped his Bo Staff, letting it rest on the floor as he picked at the wires.

She was buying him time. Sketcher worked quicker, until his fingers were going numb and his mind had mapped out every wire he could use if it was salvaged. A minute later he had the last wire taped together. He slammed his palm on the smooth rim.

The door clicked once, twice, thrice, and swung open.

Kid Flash shouted in anger as Sketcher stood and went for the outside, bō in hand. Batgirl was shoved aside and suddenly Sketcher was on his chest, jaw banging painfully off marble. His Staff rolled away like a scared child, clicking off the uneven ground. Kid Flash pressed his elbow into his back, which, although painful, wasn't going to do any serious damage without his speed. Not that Sketcher was going to say anything.

"Hey, look at this," Kid Flash chuckled, boasting. "Not even here ten minutes and I've already taken down _two Bats!"_

"Your daddy know you're here, brat?" Sketcher spat out in his panic because _Batgirl couldn't be down._ He just had to reach his bō — it was only a few inches away from where his arm had landed, flung out at an angle of 102°.

Kid Flash spat something as thick as venom at him but Sketcher didn't hear it, too busy mentally cheering at the soft footballs he heard from behind. Honestly, KF was so stupid he'd left his back unprotected in their territory.

The whoosh of a batarang passing by his head rung in his ears and suddenly KF was gone, tackling the woman with _broken ribs_ again. Shame, he'd kinda wanted to whack the guy.

He pressed his comm. link as he rolled to his feet, throwing out a freeze pellet that caught KF's feet. Batgirl used the man's confusion to her advantage and punched him in the face. His nose gushed blood as he yelled.

"ETA?" Sketcher asked.

// ** _Five minutes,_** \\\Batman grunted, tone thick with worry, indecipherable to everyone but those who knew him. // _ **Is that too long?**_ \\\

It was an honest question, but Sketcher still stiffened at it. Or maybe it was at the fact that KF had just fazed out of the ice, again. The man's grin was mean as he started up an oxygen-sucking whirlwind around Batgirl.

"Make it three," Sketcher tried. He threw a lightflash batarang into the whirpool, scrambling to Batgirl's side as it dissipated when its lightflash went off. She was okay and could've dealt with it herself but she still slapped him on the back in thanks as she stood.

"I swear if you throw another one of those ice thingies at me, I'll—!" Kid ranted. He was pouting, and it would've been cute had he not been trying to beat them up.

"You'll what?" Sketcher taunted.

"He'll try an' beat us up!" Batgirl cawed, lightly elbowing him. "'Magine tha', S! _Kid Flash bites the dust!"_

"Like a pro," KF snarled, charging right for Batgirl. Wow, he _really_ did not like her. Duke felt sorry for her. Sketcher didn't.

Kid Flash went tumbling at one of BG's well timed kicks, scrambling to right himself among the Batmobiles as he seethed. Batgirl rocked onto her knees, batarangs lining her hands like black jagged gloves.

"C'mere, tough boy," she goaded. "Come an' show us wha' ya go'."

Kid Flash stood up, but instead of charging again, he stood there and sneered. His hand snapped straight and he started vibrating it. Sketcher didn't like where this was going.

"Oh," said the speedster who was acting out on the JLA's hatred. " _I will, Batbitch."_

Batgirl laughed. Kid Flash stepped forward, walking at a normal pace as he sneered down at them. Sketcher stood a little straighter, wishing he had trained more for these types of situations, when an idea popped into his head.

"Get 'him, LJ!" Sketcher shouted as KF walked out in front of the grapnel vehicle.

Lake Jumper whirred excitedly. Kid Flash paused, frowning as his head whipped around at the noise. Lake Jumper turned her ultra-LED headlights on, effectively blinding the brat, and gunned the accelerator.

KF screamed as Lake Jumper rammed him with all of her fifteen ton weight. He landed smack dab in the middle of one of the older Batmobiles —probably from around Terry's time as Robin, or Damian's— and smashed its windowscreen.

Batgirl stilled beside him. "How long will he take to recover from that?"

"That?" Sketcher snickered. He felt jittery. Had they just won? "A few days, maybe. I'd say he just broke his spine there, maybe his legs too. You probably broke his nose with that right hook earlier—" BG preened like it was a compliment. "—soooo, all in all, I don't think we gotta worry 'bout him anymore."

"Might wanna call tha' in." Batgirl suggested, going over to pat LJ. The vehicle whirred in appreciation and flickered her lights in a show of happiness. "Well done, gal. Y'did great."

"Oh, yeah," Sketcher tapped his comm. link again and activated it to the whole Clan in range this time. "He's down."

// ** _What?_** \\\Spoiler shouted.

// ** _Pardon?_** \\\Cardinal sounded miffed.

// ** _What did y'all do?_** \\\Robin asked.

// _ **How?**_ \\\ Black Bat questioned.

"We lured him out of the armoury and had Lake Jumper ram him." Sketcher felt proud. He felt happy. They'd went up against the fastest speedster yet —although definitely not the smartest— and they'd came out _alive_ and on the winning side.

Batgirl and Sketcher had taken down Kid Flash, with the help of an oversized, overly sentimental car.

// _ **Lake Jumper?**_ \\\ Red Robin echoed. // _ **Is she alright?**_ \\\

Sketcher laughed. "Yeah, car's fine. KF is the one y'all should be worryin' about. I think his spine's broken. He landed on the old Batmobile too. I think your one, Cardinal."

// ** _He what._** \\\Maybe Sketcher shouldn't have said that.

He laughed awkwardly. "Well, gotta go. See y'all."

"They take it well?" Batgirl asked, leaving Lake Jumper with one final pat and a promise to coerce Batman into giving her another paint job.

"More worried about LJ, really." He smiled. Batgirl smiled too. She was so close, only a few feet away, so he closed the distance. Her smile was so pretty. Before he knew it, he was leaning down, closing the remaining space between them as he kissed her.

Sketcher kissed Batgirl. And Batgirl kissed back.

 


	23. It's The Broken Who Don't Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We think one of the kids we know is getting abused." 
> 
> "Oh?" She said, feeling the pit open up beneath her. "Is that so?" 
> 
> "Yeah, you probably haven't heard of her; Rachel Croydon?" 
> 
> "Never heard of her," BG answered.

 

 

"Pleasure to see y'all 'gain," she nodded to the worried family that stood before her.

Sketch and her had dragged Kiddie out into the main cave, dumping a few ice pellets on him for good luck. Now, two minutes later, the rest of the Clan had arrived and were staring at the small mountain of ice like it would eat them alive.

"Batgirl," Batman nodded and strode over to shake her hand, leaving his family in the dust. Weird, she mused, but went with it. "Well done, Bethany Gertrude."

"I prefer BG," She glanced up at him. "That was quick."

"Sketcher has known who you are from the moment you took off the cowl," Batman responded. "Did you not think we would know as well?"

Their communication system was better than she'd given them credit. They'd known all along who she was, the second she'd tapped Sketcher on the shoulder. BG doubted Sketcher's earlier reassurances, for all she knew they'd been listening to everything.

"Thought it'd take y'all longer," she smirked instead, arms and legs feeling cold. The Cave was drafty as hell.

"What did you expect? We are the best detectives in the world," Spoiler hooted from where she'd been giggling at Kid Flash's pained face — what a masochist.

"Sure," she drawled. Batman smirked at her.

She hated how he looked down at her. Why was this damn family so tall?

"You're welcome to stay around, Bethany Gertrude." Batman said, already walking past her to sit on the large metal track chair. He began typing something, monitors changing colour as the green Lockdown lights faded and the soothing darkness returned.

"Call me BG, Bats, or so help me."

"You'll what?" Nightwing smiled at her in a façade of friendliness.

"I've got batarangs," and yes, she knew she shouldn't be threatening them so soon but it just slipped out, damn it.

"Dark's gotta katana," Robin chirped, bouncing up to her. Seemed he disliked standing around a frozen speedster, unlike the rest of his family.

"Really now?" She asked, unclipping the belts slung around her. They were beginning to rub and the last thing she needed was friction rash.

"Yeah," the boy agreed. His hair flopped around, the gel not strong enough to hold the black locks in place. "And he knows how ta use 'em."

"Who's Dark?" She asked. "I'll give him something to run from."

"That would be me," Night's Cardinal spoke up. "They have taken to calling me Dark in an effort to make me change my name."

BG shrugged thoughtfully. "Dark Cardinal does sound better."

Cardinal sighed as the other kids burst out laughing.

"Told you!" Spoiler snickered, hand on her stomach. She looked like she was trying to hold her laughter in but was failing spectacularly.

"We really did!" Nightwing chuckled, red lenses going thin with his laughter.

Suddenly, the smooth wall at the top of the metal staircase swung open, a mop of recognisable red hair busting in from outside. Barbara Gordon rushed down the stairs, sans-domino mask but Oracle all the same.

"The Commish raided 56th five hours ago," she said quickly, jogging to meet the main group. Everyone looked at her eagerly as Barbara shot BG a look. "And came up with nothing. There's no one in, and nothing to charge them with."

"Are you sure?" Cardinal frowned. He took a step forward and BG watched, wondering what the cops were doing on 56th. "Did they search the place?"

"What were cops doin' on 56th?" BG asked, unable to keep it down any longer.

Cardinal closed his mouth, unwilling to continue. Oracle rose up in his place, "We... We think one of the kids we know is getting abused."

"Oh?" She said, feeling the pit open up beneath her. "Is that so?"

"Yeah, you probably haven't heard of her; Rachel Croydon?"

There was her name. Spoken and said correctly, joined on with that godforsaken surname. BG felt sick, her mouth felt too dry and weird, her limbs twinged and _god mami and tatic, I'm sorry. Tim, please—_

"Never heard of her," she said. "She a good kid?"

"She don't deserve this," Sketcher frowned. For the first time, Batgirl realised the entire Clan was frowning. Even Nightwing.

_Holy fuck._

"What are the protocols?" She asked, "I've never had to report C.A. before."

"Got lucky in that department," Spoiler huffed. "Basics are you alert the cops, wait way too long for them to get a warrant to approach and hope the abuser hasn't caught any whispers before the cops get there."

"A warrant's necessary fer abuse worries?"

"Nowadays, in Gotham, it is. Nowhere else has it, but young kids prank calling used to take advantage and send loads of men to rich people's houses. The GCPD were getting taken to court for it, so they stopped, and unfortunately the warrants came into place." Black Bat said. BG blinked at her, that was probably the most words she'd ever heard the other girl say.

"Tha's a lotta bullshit," she complained.

"Isn't it?" Nightwing agreed, nodding along animatedly. "I think they should've tracked the calls first, but people are big on privacy nowadays and there would be more fights about that. At least the cops could've known if the calls were real or not."

"Surprised they fell back to warrants so quick," BG mused.

"You can blame Variet for that — big rich man over in the west. He complained a whole stink about having recieved three prank calls in one day and had a judge implement it."

"He pay the judge off?" BG guessed. Robin snorted beside her. He seemed to be lingering near her. BG couldn't fathom why.

"Naw," the boy said. "He slept wit' 'em."

Well, it seemed that tactic certainly worked.

"Where's this kid live?" She asked even though she knew.

"Down near Harlow Rook. That old neighbourhood for the middle class." Oracle said.

"Yeah, near Solvowes Alley? That's 'round my parts." BG made a show of blinking. "Huh. This _Raykel_ anything important?"

"Not really," Cardinal said but that was his protectiveness speaking. His narrowed eyes said she was on unstable grounds.

"Really now?" She hummed. "She mus' be. 'S no' everyday y'all take an interest."

"Why would you think that?" Batman grunted, words echoing in the Cave.

BG gave one of her winning smiles. "'Cuz y'all are all tha' same. Like me. We don't poke our noses in 'less we're tempted. So, wha's this girl got that mosta Gotham don't?"

"A good heart," Red Robin said, cowl hanging limp on his neck. His blue eyes bored into her and the shock of him taking off his cowl came but it was more at the fact that he had rather than at who he was. BG felt nothing, staring at him for him to go on. His cheeks coloured as his head dipped. "She's a kind person. She doesn't deserve to be abused."

"How'd y'all figure?"

"What?" Spoiler questioned, her blonde hair wild.

"How'd y'all realise she was bein' abused?" BG repeated. Her acting skills were top notch, she knew.

"Her responses to certain stimuli," Oracle said. "She was practically a walking talking poster of warnings."

BG couldn't believe Rachel was that shallow. How had she been so translucent that they'd all seen right through her?

"An' y'all sent the cops down, when?"

"Monday." Today was Tuesday. She'd missed them.

"An' wha' happen'd?" She prodded, seeing everyone lock up. "Nuh-uh. C'mon, tell me."

"No one was at the residence," Cardinal said.

"We think they're all on holiday," Nightwing said, tone lighter than his frown.

"There's a but, ain't there?"

"There were no records of Rachel boarding the plane, she wasn't even booked on." Sketcher scratched his head.

"So, it's a setup?" BG said, playing confused. Had they really went so far to check? She felt touched.

Black Bat spoke. "We are unsure."

"Y'all don' know?" She edged. "Why no'?"

"We are not all-seeing," Cardinal snapped, head jerking to the side.

BG snorted. World's best detective family my ass, she thought.

"Why send tha' cops down if there ain't nobody to arrest?" She clicked her tongue. "Y'all think she was alone or sumthin'?"

"Yes," Oracle said, lips thin. "We did."

BG left it at that. "Wha' are y'all gonna do 'bout Kiddie Flash?"

Cardinal looked back at the thawing chunk of ice. "We're going to teach him to never mess with us ever again."

 

 

Spoiler didn't really know what feeling to settle on. She was angry, sure, but she was also frustrated. Kid Fuckup had stormed into their City, their home and had attacked their own.

Sketcher and Batgirl — _"call me BG"_ — had been forced to deal with KF alone, while they'd been rushing to get to the Cave. It was embarrassing, showing Batgirl how unprepared they were to deal with threats. Right off the bat too.

Though, from the look of the woman, standing staunchly beside Sketcher huddled around the frozen Flashicle with the rest of them, she looked content to watch Cardinal shout at the man. When he defrosted, that was.

"Ice's stickin' 'round longer than ya said it would," BG lightly elbowed Sketcher, turning to look at him. Spoiler walked up from behind, admiring how the woman's hair fell in water tagged waves. It shone the prettiest red Spoiler had ever seen, including Babs'.

Sketcher shrugged, an action he was prone to recently. "Don't know why, maybe it's the fact you dropped more than a couple pellets on 'im?"

BG seemed entirely unimpressed as Cardinal walked up and smashed the ice with the handle of his sheathed katana. "Y'said tha' didn't make it las' longer."

"Maybe I lied," Sketcher shied away from her as she stepped forward. "I'm sorry!" He squealed playfully, voice hitting a pitch Spoiler wasn't sure even she could reach.

BG just laughed and god, she sounded so beautiful Spoiler ached to not be gay right that moment. Because being gay was hard, _okay?_ Especially when she was falling for all the hot girls in her life.

"Can we begin?" Nightwing grinned. Spoiler took that as her shift line and walked forward, joining the forming circle. She stood beside BG. She smelled nice, like apples and something fresh.

"Wallace West," Cardinal growled out, giving the man a boot in the side. KF groaned and swatted his hand in the air, mumbling something unintelligent. "Wake up."

KF groaned and rolled over in the shattered icicles that had once been a mountain of ice. It was slowly turning to water, evaporating as whatever formulative cells reacted to the Cave's temperature. Spoiler wondered how he didn't wake up when Cardinal slapped him with his sheathed katana but he didn't.

"I mean, he was slammed into Dark's Batmobile," Sketcher shrugged in a public explanation.

_"My_ Batmobile," Boss heaved, striding up to join their group. Spoiler felt giddy. She enjoyed being intimidating with her family.

"Yeah," Sketcher scrambled to grin sheepishly, head knocking to the side in a way that looked too innocent to be true.

"It wasn't done on purpose, right?" Red Robin raised an eyebrow, smirk playing on his lips.

"'Course no'," BG stepped up, approaching KF. "Scoot. I'll wake 'im."

Spoiler then watched as BG proceeded to grab Kid Flash by the ear lobe and shake him. Black Bat tilted her head like she was taking notes and Cardinal stepped back, watching with a stern face and crossed arms.

"Bett'r wake tha' fuck up now, brat," BG hissed. "Or y'r gonna find yasel' cacastrated in a—"

"I'm up," the man slurred, lenses shuttering as he rocked back and forth in BG's ironclad grip. "I'm up, Ma— leggo."

BG grinned like an animal. "I ain't yo mama, sunshine."

Kid Flash opened his eyes fully, went stock still, and screamed like he'd seen Scarface pop out in front of him, naked and grinning. BG stepped back and let Cardinal take the reigns, the man cracking his knuckles at the prospect.

Kid Flash fainted.

 

 

"Wanna come see somethin'?" Robin asked her when Kiddie was long gone — Cardinal had thrown him in a Zeta-Tube set for the Amazon (although there'd been a ten minute fight over the destination; _the Arctic or the Amazon;_ before they decided it was best to leave him alive). BG turned down to him to refuse, to say _no, I need ta go wash my sui_ _t,_ but staring down into those expectant domino lenses and that bright grin made her falter. "C'mon, Batgirl!"

BG followed like a limp puppet, resolve shattered on the cool Cave floor. She left it there to reform as she walked behind Robin, following him through numerous caverns.

"Where ya goin', kid?" She called as they got to a particularly dark area. Her lenses lit up in night vision, guiding her terribly. Suddenly a hand slid into hers and tugged. BG looked down, unable to stop the smile that formed at Robin's eager grin.

"Somewhere special," he said and tugged her under a low scoping arch, past a jagged outcropping of stalagmites and through a veritable minefield littered with sleeping bats three foot above.

Robin tugged so hard, at one point, BG had to reel him in, fearing for her arm socket. She almost felt bad for making his smile drop but a second later he was beaming up at her again.

How were his cheeks not aching?

Finally, they stepped out into a vast cavern — a relieving difference when compared to the narrow ledges and crooked paths the boy had led her down to get here. BG smiled, rubbing feeling back into her hand as she looked around the place.

It was a large, circular cavern that seemed pretty natural, judging from the rough walls and the dripping stalactites up high. There seemed to be no bats, which was a relief. As BG stepped out along the path she found it was nothing more than a four by four foot ledge, leading down to a teen foot drop into a mind-swallowing body of crystalline, dark blue water.

"'S about fifty foot deep," Robin said, peering down at the body of water as he stood beside her. They were a few centimetres away from the edge but it still felt like they were teetering, seconds away from falling in.

"Y'all ever been in it?" She asked, gently nudging the boy a few feet back. God forbid if he fell down there. It didn't look like there were any ledges down there, so there was nothing for a struggling child to hold onto if they fell. With no visible way to get back up from down there, she really didn't want to have to stage a rescue mission. She thanked whoever was listening that she could swim.

"Naw," the boy said. He gave her a lopsided grin. "But ya will."

A second passed and BG spent it blinking at him. "Wha'?"

Then hands were at the base of her back, pushing and she was falling — _falling, mami, tătic, no_. The blue water loomed closer and she squealed, trying to go feet first but flunking the dive and going straight in on her side. She dropped into it with a harsh splash that reverberated through her entire being. Robin's laughter followed her the whole way down.

BG opened her eyes to clear blue water with surprising visibility. She waved a hand in front of her eyes for a moment to check that what she saw was actually real. Her cheeks were no doubt puffed out like a chipmunks' and the thought made her smile. Marble surrounded her, but it was smooth — obvious from its sheen, even from a distance. BG squinted, domino mask the only thing that had saved her contacts, and seen a deep tunnel in the barest base of the pool.

Holy shit. There was more? This little pool of water was deep enough, as it was, but entirely beautiful. Her side gave a twang from the rough treatment but she could only feel happiness. Her broken ribs stayed silent.

BG broke the surface with an excited giggle. She gasped up at the towering ledge that Robin was grinning at her from and hurried to swipe the excess water away from her face, squinting up at him.

"Ya brat!" She hollered, hoping the noise hadn't worried the others. Probably thought she was trying to murder the kid, bless them. "Get down 'ere an' we'll see how ya like it!"

It wasn't even cold. If anything, it was relaxing and oddly lukewarm. Not that she was complaining, oh no. If this was her only free hot-tub experience she was getting she would not turn it down.

"Y'sure?" Robin radiated bemusement, head tilted down at her. "How's tha' water?"

"Good," she called back. "Lukewarm, kid. Ya shoulda dropped wit' me."

Robin laughed boyishly and jumped without warning. BG paddled back a bit, combing back her hair with her fingertips as the boy dropped with a larger splash than she had. He resurfaced and spat some water at her, cackling.

BG spluttered, choking on the water as she managed to splash the kid back. She was regretting wearing a white tank top and no bra but she would live this to the fullest. They were probably gonna be down here for a while anyways so it didn't matter much.

"Hey!" Robin yelped, splashing her back ten times harder. BG dipped under the water as he went for a second wave, swimming down to prolong her domino's lifespan. An idea popped to mind and she waded herself further down, grabbing him by his ankle to tug him under with her. She winked at his surprised face, motioning down to the tunnel in a let's explore gesture.

After going back up for air, they went for it. It wasn't too deep down —definitely not Robin's estimated fifty foot, maybe only thirty— and BG liked that, feeling a soft current from the tunnel. She doubted the water was connected to any salt deposits, as she got a gritty feeling when bathing in salt that she wasn't getting right now. The worst it could do was bring them up under the waterfall and even that wasn't too bad.

As they neared, the tunnel seemed to get bigger, until BG was fluttering through it easily. It was wide enough to let a shark through, and long enough to deter one from entering.

When she came out the other end, BG floated, waiting for Robin despite the air it cost her. She was pushing her boundaries here, lungs starting to nag her, but Robin looked fine.

The area they'd came out in looked the same, with identical smooth walls. Although this time, there were scratches on the wall that looked positively not man-made. BG hit topside, side aching a little, and gaped at the wide sprawling cavern.

Black, glittering marble seamed to flow for miles before it stopped, curling around, creating soft looking walls. The cave looked like it had been sculpted out by the hands of nature, the ceiling curving gently with the foremost point tipping down into what looked like a bat all curled up.

BG didn't understand why she liked the cave so much, she just did.

Robin resurfaced beside her, water lapping around them both. His hair was lax, flopping over his domino lenses. He whistled in appreciation, the sound ringing out in a never ending echo.

"This is nice," he said, admiring the curve of the walls. The actual area around the pool was similarly curved, giving the entire cavern a nice soothing feel to it.

"Ain't it?" She agreed, swimming over to the edge of the cave. The rock was smooth, going at a slight angle that made it look as if something had continuously slid down it for thousands of years. The pool of water had probably been around for as long as these caves had been around — it did taste a little _stale._

Wondering how old the caves were, she pulled herself up onto the dry ground, flapping out her tank in an effort to dry it.

Robin followed in her swimstrokes and pulled up beside her, elbows up on the ledge. He blinked at her and then flipped himself so that he was staring at the wall ahead of them. "Y'can ring tha' out," he clarified. "I won't be lookin'."

"Nothing I don't doubt ya ain't seen already," BG hummed, unable to resist musing his messy hair as she chuckled. Still, she pulled off her tank —hating how it stuck to her skin like a clammy day's heat— and rung it out, eyes widening at how much water actually came out of it. She hadn't thought cotton was _that_ absorbant.

BG was about to do the same with her shorts before realising there was no point. They'd probably have to swim to get out and her clothing would just lap back up the water.

What tha' hell, she wasn't gonna sit round in soaked shorts for however long they were hanging about for. She stood, slipping on her now really tight tank, and slipped out of her shorts to squeeze the water out of them as well.

"Come on out, kid," she ruffled his hair before fixing the button on her shorts. "I'll let ya do yasel'."

"Do wha'?" Robin smirked. "Kevlar holds water, ya think squeezin' it would do anythin'?"

_Holy shit,_ the kid had been weighed down by his suit and she hadn't even realised. God, she was such a dick.

"Ya cape is fabric," she offered with a teasing smirk. Robin stood up and hit a button, letting the armour fall off him to reveal a navy t-shirt and a pair of sport shorts, completely dry. BG huffed, raising an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Sorry," the boy laughed. "I thought we might go swimmin'."

"I'm sure," she drawled, hands resting on wet hips. The water was running down her legs. The brace was soaked too.

As Robin set to work peeling off his domino, BG bent down and pulled off the brace. It came off with a sad _zwerp_ of zelcro. The air was cooler here and it stung against her knee, making her tense.

"How'd y'hurt yourself, Batgirl?" Robin asked, Jason's teal eyes staring at her with a touch of concern.

"Got shot," she hissed lowly through her teeth. Standing made her feel dizzy and she had to sit down, lowering herself with a hesitancy that had Jason hovering like a worried mother hen. "Was a while back. Lucky I wasn't kneecapp'd."

"Kneecapped?" Jason echoed, honest teal staring at her.

"Buckled from tha' knee down, happens when y'all get shot at tha' kneecap. Bullet shatters tha' cap an' boom, ya've gotta bum leg."

"Guns are dangerous," Jason said, sounding like he was repeating words that had been said to him.

"An' they hurt like hell." She joked, grabbing her brace to wring it out. Jason gestured for it and she handed it over, watching with a small smile as he wrung it out into the pool for her. "T'anks," she grunted, putting it back on when he returned it.

"No problem," the boy smiled. "What made ya call yourself Batgirl?"

BG looked at him, forcing herself onto her feet despite the pain her right side wallowed in. It felt like her nerves were on fire. Of course she just had to fall into the pool on her right side, as if her leg wasn't trouble enough.

"Tha's outta tha' blue," she got out. "Why'd I call mysel' Batgirl?"

"Do ya need to sit some more?" Jason asked, eyes worried. "It wasn't long ago ya were coughin' up blood."

BG walked forward, hand trailing along the smooth rock for a secret passage. She refused to believe Bats didn't know about this cave too and _hadn't_ built it an exitway. The man was over forty, he'd grew up on this land and if he didn't know it like the back of his hand she didn't know what he did know. "Kid, if I sit down 'gain, I won't get back up. And call me BG. Bethany, if ya've gotta."

"Oh," Jason said. Then, "My name's Jason, not kid."

"Alrigh', Jason," she said, offering him a smile. "Here's a deal; I'll tell ya why I chose Batgirl and ya'll tell me why ya chose the name Robin. Yeah?"

"Okay," nodded Jason. "Sounds fair."

Her hand caught on a rough patch and when she looked at it she found a small bat scraped into the marble. It was rough and dirty, like it had been there for years. Bats had obviously known about this place for a while.

"I chose Batgirl for two reasons," she admitted. "One, because I was scared and two, because I needed reassurance."

"Wha'?" Jason asked, sounding utterly confused.

"I chose Bat 'cuz y'all were strong and I wasn't. Still ain't. Havin' _bat_ in my name said I was wit' y'all and it gave me leverage so I used it." She felt teribble admitting it but Jason didn't seem anything other than interested. "An' I chose _Girl_ 'cuz bein' a woman is scary and I'm a kid at heart. Girl represented freedom to me, five years ago, still does. Plus, sayin' I was Batwoman would probably get people thinkin' I was Bats' lady, or sumthin'."

Jason cringed, trekking by her side. "Yeah, I get ya. Batwoman's pretty cool though, don't ya think?"

BG looked down at him, seen the hopeful look and compromised. "If Batgirl ever goes down, or I rebrand, I'll be Batwoman. Promise."

Jason's smile made it worth the promise.

"So, Jay. Y'alls turn."

Jason's smile dimmed and he pulled his domino from his shorts' pocket to fiddle with it. "I used ta be a streetrat," the boy said quietly. "Back in tha' winter it got real cold, an' there wasn't as much food 'round."

BG listened, stopping as she found a ridge in the stone. Jason stopped too, stalling. She ruffled his hair encouragingly and he began speaking.

"Well, this Robin used ta land on my knees and drop me crusts of bread," Jason whispered. "It was all I had and I loved tha' bird for it, named him Red. I woulda called mysel' Red, but Red was already about, just not revealed to the city. So, I chose Robin and debuted firs', Double R comin' in an' asking me if he could use Robin too. I let 'im an' he became Red Robin."

"That's sweet," she pulled at the ridge and it opened with a gust of warm air. It opened out into a pathway and after sharing a look they went straight for it. Jason scrambled to grab his suit, dragging it behind them. "But Sketcher said earlier how the Batmobile was from sumbody else's time as Robin?"

"Oh," Jason got a tad louder, renewed in confidence by how the pathway was wide enough for both of them to walk side by side. "After a while everybody started referring ta their first years as Robin years, even if they were called somethin' else.'

"Their rookie years," BG remarked fondly. "Cute."

They walked in silence for a bit, before coming across a point where the path narrowed, becoming a walkway overlooking the large outside pools from the waterfall. IT was a narrow valley below them, the hard stone above them so high up it looked like they were sitting in a dusty mountain side outside, the steam from the waterfall filling up the air nicely. Sitting down, BG made sure that Jason's suit was set ahead of them on the sheltered part of the path before striking up a new conversation.

"I heard ya took down Black Mask tha' other day," she remarked, listening to the dull squeak of bats in the distance coupled with the rush of water from below. The domino mask was irritating her now, peeling oddly from the residual water, so she ripped it off, mourning the few lost eyebrow hairs. She shoved the mask into her shorts pocket and blinked to reorientate herself.

"Yeah," Jason nodded. "He even had a machine gun an' all but we took him down! Why?"

"Nothin'," she soothed. "I just wanted to say well done."

"Oh— your welcome?" Trust the boy to see right through her sad cover-up of a _thank you._

She laughed, head tipping back at the honest response. Seconds later she heard Jason give a small self-conscious laugh and hooked an arm around him, lugging him closer. He shuffled over with a squeal.

"See wha' ya do, Jay? Most people only dream of it. Ya actually do it an' ya do it well. I reckon that deserves some t'ank ya's, if not some ice cream."

"Ice cream?" Jason whispered from where he was smushed into her ribs. They panged but not loud enough for her to let go just yet.

"Yep," she drawled. "If I've gotta get y'all ice cream ta make y'all family then I will." The wind picked up, the gusts licking at them. BG jumped, goosebumps rising and Jason shivered. "C'mon, let's shift it."

BG stood stiffly, cracking her back. She went to leave but the little bird spoke again and she paused to listen.

"Ya got tha' righ'. We're not some group," Jason said, tone hard. His legs continued to swing back and forth, his fingers pushing against each other in a mini war happening on his lap. "We don't want you if you're not bein' real 'bout this. We're a family. Families don't lie, and when they fight, they fight together."

"I know," she said.

"We've gotta lotta baggage," the boy said, eyes dead serious from where he looked up at her.

BG ruffled his hair as she turned to leave. "And I've gotta lotta bags."

"C'mon," she added a second later. "Bats'll kill me if I show up wit'out ya. Or wit' ya snifflin'."

"I like ya eyes," he said on a final note.

BG strained to remember what colour they were. She was pretty sure they were blue. "T'anks," she grinned.

 


	24. Don't Buckle When You Bleed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note:  
> Sizes for the clothing and shoes were originally UK sizes (as that's what I work in) but i have now changed them to US. I got them from general google posts so I hope they're correct xD
> 
> Clothing  
> UK size - US size  
> 6 - 2 (Rachel's)  
> 8 - 4 (BG's)  
> 10 - 6  
> 12 - 8 
> 
> Shoes  
> UK - US (women)  
> 1 - 3 (Rachel's)  
> 2.5 - 5  
> 3.5 - 6 (BG's)  
> 4 - 7.5  
> 5 - 8.5
> 
> Rachel's a 2 US in clothing. And a 3 US in shoes. (She's a skinny bean ik.)

 

 

"Where have you been, Robin?"

Bruce turned at Alfred's relieved question, finding Jason trailing out of one of the secret entrances, his suit pulling a trail of water behind him. Bethany was with him too, smile wide on her face despite being completely soaked. Her domino mask hung limp in her shorts' pocket and for the first time he could see her eyes, dark like his fathers' had been. "My goodness, what on earth happened to you both?"

"Ya must be Agent Penny," Bethany smiled, nodding to Alfred. "Pleasure ta meet ya. I would shake yer hand, but Imma tad drown'd."

"No need to worry, young lady." Alfred said, already ushering the two along the slick marbel floor. Bethany dripped water from her hair like a mermaid risen from the deep. Jason dropped his suit halfway along the wall, Bethany dropping her domino down atop it. "I have plenty of towels and hot cocoa."

"Hot cocoa?" Bethany sounded like she was drooling already. Bruce kept an eye on them, noticing the girl's right leg wobble on the first step as if she was on stilts. Her voice gave no indication to any pain. "Tha' one thing I love more'n ice cream."

Bruce shook his head, cowl tapping at his neck with the movement. Behind him, Stephanie and Terry burst out laughing.

"Did you see them, Dad?" Terry wailed, he stumbled over his training Bo Staff and came inches from faceplanting. Stephanie wasn't much better opposite him, the girl doubled over in hysterics. "BG looked like a drowned cat!"

"I can hear y'all!" Bethany shouted back from the winding staircase the moment Alfred stepped past the clock door boundary, Jason in tow.

"You look like a drowned cat!" Stephanie joined in. Alfred ushered Bethany into the warmer Manor and the door clicked shut.

Damian emerged from the showers. "What did I miss?"

Terry and Stephanie choked on their laughter, struggling to explain. Bruce shook his head once more and returned his attention to the case on the monitors.

 

 

BG followed the butler as he led them through the Manor, out of the Study and into the hallway. Was this their subtle way of telling her who they were? Cute.

The side of the ornate staircase stared at her, looming down at her as they passed doors with doorknobs that looked older than Alfred himself. Jason chattered the whole way to the kitchen, excitably recalling how he'd pushed BG into the pool and how she'd screamed _so loud_ _, Alf, ya shoulda heard her._

"That was not very nice, Master Robin." Alfred scolded as they entered the kitchen. "What if Miss..."

"Bethany Gertrude," she introduced herself in a lull of the older man's speech. "Y'all can call me BG."

"What if Miss Bethany was unable to swim, hm? What then? You would've had to jump in and rescue her _and_ with no viable exits. Your fun and games could've killed Miss Bethany, Master Robin." Alfred rushed her into a barstool at the black marble island before fluttering off to get them hot chocolate.

BG was honestly surprised the man was scolding Jason for having some fun.

"Jason did not'in' wrong, Alfie." She defended the boy. He'd curled up morosely in the barstool beside her, wearing a pout that physically hurt her. "Swimmin's a part of tha' job, if I couldn' I woulda died a while back. Don' pester tha' boy fer havin' a breather, if anythin' I was tha' supervisin' adult. Take ya complaints ta me, not tha' kid."

Alfred paused in his puttering about. When he turned around, a mug in each hand, he was smiling.

"Indeed. I can see why Master Bruce allowed you up here, Madam Bethany." The man said, setting down a small blue mug in front of Jason, and a larger, yellow bat-symbol'd one before her.

"Stick ta sumthin'," she drawled, understanding the elder's game now. He'd been testing her, seeing if she'd stick up for their own. "Mad'm sounds weird."

"Would you prefer Mistress, then?" The kettle boiled, steam rising. BG wondered when he'd put down the tab. A couple tea spoons of hot cocoa powder found their way into their mugs, quickly followed by the warm water.

"Wha' happen'd Miss?" She asked, nursing her mug. Her ribs were beginning to make their presence known, so were the inevitable bruises on her side. How many painkillers had she been on to only be feeling this _now?_

"You passed the test," Alfred smiled, placing the kettle back on its stool. "You are the first to do so. Therefore you deserve to pick a title."

_I'm sure I'm tha' firs', ol' boy._ Did he think she was born yesterday? It was laughable.

She thought about that, holding back her shivers. The kitchen was warm, sure, but she'd been soaked through for the past half hour in the least and it felt like the chill was surrounding her. "Call me BG," she said finally.

The butler's moustache twitched, broadcasting his discontempt. "What about Bethany?" Alfred tried.

"No, I don' like tha'. Sounds like my mom's callin' me." She frowned, sinking low in the barstool to place her head in her hands. She felt drained. When had she gotten so tired? Inside, Rachel yawned. BG shook her head. "Jus' BG. Call me BG, please."

"Very well," the man nodded. She shivered. "Oh! You must be cold. How foolish of me. What size of clothing are you? I might be able to find something from the dryer for you."

"Uh," shit what size was she? 8? 6? "Sometimes an eight, sometimes a six."

"Splendid," the English man said. "I'll be back in a tic."

Then he was gone, bustling out of the kitchen, down the hall.

"Nice," Jason cheered beside her. She looked at him and found his smile to be as big as the moon. "Thanks for stickin' up for me back there. Like Alf said, nobody's ever passed tha' test."

_I'm sure._

"Shoulda be feelin' special?" She chuckled, chest bouncing with the dryness of her throat. At least her tank top had dried out a bit so no one could see her nipples. God, the embarrassment if that had happened. She shivered thinking about it.

"Guess so," the boy replied. "Gosh, you mus' be cold. Should I be apologizin'?"

"Fer wha'?" She smirked, taking a sip of her vegan hot cocoa — hence the no milk. It tasted _delicious._ Maybe she could go vegan whilst here, Damian had turned out alright after all. "Havin' fun?"

"Eh," the boy shrugged, jarring her arm with the movement. He slammed his elbows onto the island with such force they made a loud click, making her eyes snap to them in alert. "Ya don' seen like the type ta stick up for a stranger though."

"Y'all ain't," she answered, voice firm. "Y'all are tha' Bats, y'all ain't no strangers."

"Is that all?" Jason asked. Why did he sound sad and why did that annoy her so much? "We're just _the Bats?"_

"Yeah, so?" She nudged his arm. "Y'all Bats are proud, Imma 'fraid if I say I like y'all it'll go to y'alls heads."

Jason peered at her but laughed along. _God,_ she thought. _Don't point out my commitment issues today too_ _, kid._

"Here you are, Madam BG." That sounded so weird coming from a Brit. Beside her, jogging bottoms and a shirt, along with a black hoodie were set down. Alfred returned to the cooker. "There's a bathroom on the left, the first door on the right under the staircase."

"Cheers, Alfie." She said, feeling comfortable with leaving her hot cocoa on the island after shooting Jason a warning look. The young boy raised his hands in a mocking surrender of peace, closing his eyes as he shook his head in dismay as if he wasn't thinking about chugging her untouched drink with her out of the room.

"You are welcome, young lady." Alfred winked. "I will watch your hot cocoa for you as well."

She grabbed the clothes and strode out of the kitchens open doorway, taking a left. She ignored the second parlour and the third sitting room named _Joshua's Peace_ —like what the fuck, who _named_ rooms?— and twisted the first door under the staircase's handle.

A black cat, with a white belly and what looked like a black bowtie around its neck, prowled out with a hiss. BG stood there dumbly for a second before thumbing the light switch and sliding into the definitely animal-less room.

For a downstairs bathroom the room was fucking huge, big white tiles everywhere. There was a glass doored shower, a couple doorless shelf-cabinets and the usual sink and toilet. The glass mirror above the sink was pristine and literally gleamed in the overhead LED's light.

Announcing the floor clean enough to eat off if need be, BG dropped the clothes on the fluffy mat and went about her business.

She found a couple towels in one of the neatly stacked shelves and sunk into one for a moment after stripping. There was soaps in the shower and after assuring herself the door was locked, she took a quick five minute shower to get anything unwanted off her. From there on she dried herself, put down the toilet lid and sat on it while massaging her right knee to return feeling to it. She'd maybe had the heat up a tad too high, for the pain everywhere was returning, this time harsher.

One squeeze of the brace had her deciding _no, no' puttin' that on 'gain_. So she avoided that, pulling the soft trackies up over her hips after cooing at some cute ducky panties. The clothing seemed to fit alright and she even found herself smirking at the old man's humour. The trackies were black, the t-shirt was black with a _white_ batman symbol and the hoodie was entirely black with cloth bat ears and a faux-cowl for a hood.

Her socks broke the theme though, taking a turn up kiddy lane with pink lollypops on them. BG wondered if that was on purpose or if the butler had just grabbed whatever was available.

She'd have to ask for another brace. Although, from what she'd seen of the medical supplies cabinet, they weren't at risk of running out any time soon. Standing, she peered at herself in the mirror, making sure she was presentable and that her contacts were okay.

Her hair looked a bit ratty, but there was a firm bristled brush in the very same shelving unit the towels were in and she used it. Not wanting to leave the literal hairball of red hair on the brush, she flushed what was removable down the toilet and dumped her towels into the labelled _wash bucket._

"Migh' as well clean ya up too," she murmured, pulling at her bar piercing. It looked good, pierced cleanly through her two upper ear piercings, the black of it standing out nicely. Usually she didn't wear earrings, scared of them catching on something, but right now was different. She was on alien territory as Batgirl and not Rachel. This time, things were _very_ different. They'd figured out Rachel was being abused before even she had, and although Bats seemed happy with her current BG profile, she knew to not get too comfortable.

Bad things always happened. This was _Gotham_ for god's sake.

BG tapped the small DNA recognition button on the very side of her piercing twice, signalling for the holo to unform. It didn't and her contacts —which should've been linked up with the device from the start— struggled to link up with it.

Her heart leapt into her throat. She tugged at the bar piece, thumbing the button to turn it off again. Contacts lighting up red, she paused to read it.

_Error occurred,_ it said. BG wanted to scream. _Unable to carry out your request._

What had done this? Her HD wasn't set to malfunction at any point and it was resistant towards most things— except the sheer _volume_ of _water_ she'd swam through.

_Damn it._ It had been the water. It must've seeped into the piece and fried the wiring. Or else the pressure had one up'd it.

BG quickly slid the earring out of her ear. Running it over her hands no water came out but that could only mean it was locked inside the bar. She slumped back on the toilet lid, sighing. That was it. She was stuck in this holoform until her piece dried out.

She estimated around three days, maybe more. Especially with the amount of water she'd swam through.

_Great,_ she groaned and put her earbar back in. She'd have to check it again later, when she wasn't sitting in a downstairs bathroom. She grabbed her wet clothing and dropped them into the wash bucket, not one bit worried about her clothes returning to size. Holo-liqudification was a one-way trip.

One deep breathe later, she'd bent over and had successfully retrieved the sodden knee brace. BG prayed to god that her knee wouldn't buckle from point A to B.

 

 

Jason whistled from his place at the island, swinging his legs back and forth like he had over the misty valley. Alf seemed to like BG, and honestly, so did Jason. She was light and fun in a way that most of his siblings weren't anymore. They were all dried out from years of Crime fighting and injuries and _hell_ but BG wasn't. BG was happy, smiled without prompting and didn't nearly look as sleep deprived as Timmo recently looked.

"I do hope you're going to drink that, Master Jason." Alf raised a prim eyebrow at him, dish rag in his hands as the bubbles in the sink got ready to overflow. He turned off the hot water tap and grabbed the first plate from the washing pile.

The dish washer had broken two days ago, and apparently no one was willing to drive all the way out to the middle of Country to service theirs, higher pay or not. Jason couldn't understand it — if he were a dish washer service man, he would've jumped for the opportunity. B was known to be generous to the working class after all.

"'Course I am, Alf." Jason grinned. To make a point, he drained a good third of what remained. Alfred looked a tad appeased. "Well, ya do or don't like BG."

"Was that meant as a question, Master Jason?" Alfred dipped a plate into the bubbles, scrubbing at it with his washing up liquid scrub gloves.

"I don't know," Jason admitted, hopping off to add his mug to the pile of dirty dishes as he finished off the cocoa. BG's was probably going cold. "But it still counts. Do ya?"

"She is a tad on the bossy side," Alf suggested. "At least, she came off that way to me. She very well may not be, but I always say first impressions are everything."

"Tha' why ya're callin' her Madam?" Jason didn't know why his chest hurt at that. He didn't like Alf not liking BG. How could he not like her?

"Back in Britain Madam was formally used to call someone vain or bossy," Alfred smiled his longing, nostalgic smile — the one that had him staring out the window, strategically placed to supervise his hedge cuttings in the side garden. "So I suppose I am clinging to it in that way but the woman seems to be full of life."

"She's awesome," Jason took that as Alf's head dipping towards his opinion. He was a polite man through and through. "She didn't even shout at me like Damian woulda done hadda it been 'im pushed into the pool. She jus' smiled and laughed, told me I shoulda jumped wit' 'er."

"She certainly seems to favour you," Alf said and what did _that_ mean.

Jason scoffed, rounding the island to jump back into his seat. There was no point in risking sitting on the table with Alf so close — the man practically had eyes in the walls _and_ the back of his head. It scared Jason sometimes, knowing exactly what the man knew.

"Maybe," he returned. He swung his legs from side to side, gripping onto the counter to push the moving stool that way too.

"I don't recall telling her my name," Alf noted, turning to look back at him for a moment as he placed a dish up onto the drying rack. "Come and dry these, Master Jason."

"Ya think she knows who we are then?" Jason grunted, jumping down to walk back over to Alf again. He grabbed a drying cloth from a drawer and got to work.

"Indeed, it's not as if it is hard to figure out. This Manor is telling enough," Alf hummed. Jason watched the bubbles as Alf scrubbed at a dish, personally he liked the way they sparkled in the light.

"Not if somebody's never been 'ere," Jason said. "D'ya think...?"

"Hm," Alfred paused for a moment. "I do believe I would have remembered had one of you brought home a fellow vigilante."

"Ya didn' 'member Kate," Jason didn't miss the oportunity to smirk.

"Miss Kane came as Master Bruce's cousin, recently returned home from an overseas tour with the army. I was not expecting her to be Huntress." The batler gave Jason the stink eye. Jason cackled. "Nor was Master Bruce."

"Alrigh', alrigh'," he grinned. "We don't know any Bethany Gertrude's anyways."

"Is Gertrude her surname or her middle name?" Alfred mused a few minutes later. Jason would never admit he'd been thinking the same thing 'lest the batler call him out on it.

"Think it's 'er second name," he said. "Like ya get Lily-Anne, or somethin'."

"Indeed," Alf nodded. "That makes sense. You Americans always want more of everything."

"I'm Hispanic," Jason raised an eyebrow innocently. "I ain't to be called out fer tha'."

"Like you wouldn't call yourself an American overseas," Alf hummed. "Still, I suppose I will have to blame Master Bruce."

"Or Terry. Them two are the only whites," Jason tutted in an impersonation of Damian. "We can blame 'em."

Alfred looked down at him with his _'excuse me'_ face and Jason hurried to redeem himself. "I'm jokin', course."

"You'd better be. Racism is not acceptable in this household, just as it should not be anywhere else, Master Jason. Remember that."

"Yes, Alf."

BG appeared in the doorway, lips thin and paler without the lipstick. "Left my clothes in yer wash bucket, Alfie, if tha's alrigh' wit' ya."

"Of course, Madam." BG raised an eyebrow at the lack of her name. "I could reheat your hot cocoa if you wish."

BG seemed weak on her right knee as she stepped into the kitchen. Jason instantly noticed her brace was gone. It had been pretty wet, he recalled. Maybe she'd dumped it.

"Y'all need'ta lemme get over there," she smiled, discreetly pushing off the wall to clutch at the island top. Jason worried she'd collapse.

"Are ya alrigh'?" He worked up the courage to ask when she wavered, still standing.

"Yeah," she nodded but Alf had already turned around. He looked and seen her standing there, leaning her weight crookedly on her left leg, and frowned like a hurricane had ruined his flowers.

"What's the matter, dear?" He asked, abandoning his bubbles. Alf dried his hands in a rush before approaching BG. She looked so pale Jason wondered if she was going to faint.

"'S m'leg," she slurred like the drunkard Jason knew she was not. BG tipped, going down heavy as her legs seemed to just give up. Alf shot into action, grabbing her arm.

"It's alright, Bethany." He soothed, trying to pull her up to a chair. He looked just as frazzled as Jason felt at the sudden motion. "Let's get you on a chair, yes?"

"No," she grabbed the countertop again after she'd buckled and lowered herself to the floor. Alf looked more concerned than Jason had ever seen him. "Too high, jus'..." She took a deep breath, fingers coming up to massage her temple as if trying to ward off a headache. "Think I'm gonna faint."

"You're sitting down now," Alf said. Jason was beginning to panic, heart thumping in his ears. He fiddled with his fingers, feeling awkward on his feet as he watched. "It's okay, just lean back against the wood here. Yes."

She slumped against the wood, head drooping. Alfred jumped, hand shooting out to find a pulse. BG's eyes had closed.

"Get Bruce, Jason." Alfred shouted.  _"N_ _ow!"_

Jason's never ran so fast in all his life.

 


End file.
